


When You Say Nothing at All

by TrenchcoatBaby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - College/University, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Character Study, Charlie Bradbury Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Crush at First Sight, Dean/Cas Pinefest 2019, Everyone Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Explicit Sexual Content, Eye Sex, Fake Science, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Insecure Dean Winchester, M/M, Meg Masters Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Past Castiel/Meg Masters, Professor Castiel (Supernatural), Relationship Study, Scenting, Sexual Tension, Stanford Student Sam Winchester, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, True Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatBaby/pseuds/TrenchcoatBaby
Summary: At Stanford University, omega Dean Winchester and alpha Castiel Novak are complete and utter strangers. Dean’s on the ground’s crew, and Castiel is pursuing his PhD in literature. Under normal circumstances, their paths would never cross.But when they both agree to participate in an unusual case study observing alphas and omegas—the thesis project of anthropology major Charlie Bradbury—they find themselves alone and face to face. For hours each week.The catch? They’re forbidden to speak a word to each other, despite sharing an obvious and immediate crush. One might even call it true-mate level.Oh, this is gonna be torture.





	1. May

**Author's Note:**

> Readers and friends, old and (hopefully) new: welcome to my Dean/Cas Pinefest 2019!!! I am beyond thrilled to be here and share this (romantic, fun, and smutty AF) pinefest story.
> 
> Tons and tons of love to my editor and future co-author (just wait and see what we have planned), [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz), who is quite possibly the most selfless and kickass gal I know. I have a wonderful team of betas and besties, all who offered such great feedback on this story: [vipjuly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly), [CBFirestarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBFirestarter/pseuds/CBFirestarter), [WaywardAF67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardAF67/pseuds/WaywardAF67), [WaywardJenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardjenn/pseuds/waywardjenn), and [Lorelei2005](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelei2005/pseuds/Lorelei2005). I love you each so much and am so thankful for you!
> 
> Last but certainly not least, endless thanks to my lovely artist [foxymoley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxymoley/pseuds/foxymoley). You'll see her art featured throughout this story, and you're certainly in for a treat!! Edit: The art is currently down, but I'm working on figuring out how to repost it. Sorry, friends!

Dean Winchester sighed and stretched, walking around the small confines of the room. He had signed the contract fifteen minutes ago and was waiting for Dr. Bradbury to return. Or, uh, _Charlie,_ as the petite, beta redhead had insisted, since she hadn’t technically graduated with her PhD yet. He stared at the bland cement walls, gray tiled floor, and dark oak table and chairs… Wow. So much for finding a distraction in here.

 _You’d think a fancy ass place like this could afford to put some paint on the walls_. Dean chuckled, then reprimanded himself, shaking the amusement off his face. He had promised his little brother, Sam, that he’d stop commenting on the extravagance that _was_ freaking Stanford. Sam had just finished his freshman year, and Dean had been working on-campus for over six months in Buildings and Grounds. From the outside they had acclimated just fine from Kansas to California. Yet…

Yet Dean was no closer to reining in his opinions about the college—and its fancy halls and fancy classrooms and fancy fucking manicured lawns—than he had been a year ago, when Sammy had gotten his acceptance letter. He felt judged here, by the students and the faculty, by everyone who saw his dusty work pants and calloused hands and thought _other_.

The door to the small room creaked open and Charlie reappeared, a clipboard in her hand. She closed the door firmly behind her, apparently not wanting their conversation to be overheard.

Weird.

“Hey dude, sorry for the holdup,” she said. Her tone was brisk but conversational, and between her natural cheeriness and the Star Wars t-shirt peeking under her blazer, Dean liked her already. Well, as much as he liked anyone who had drunk the Stanford kool-aid.

“Castiel had like, a _zillion_ more questions about this whole thing than you did,” she said.

“Castiel?” The name sounded strange and foreign in Dean’s mouth. What the hell kinda name was that? Latin or some shit?

“Yep, Castiel. He’s the other participant in the study,” Charlie explained. “He’s…well…” Charlie pursed her lips, as if just realizing something. “Considering the conditions of the study, I shouldn’t say anything else about him.” She bit her lips, thinking. “Damn, that’s gonna be super hard to remember.”

Dean just shrugged. He was unconcerned by his lack of knowledge about the Castiel guy. No matter how much he liked Charlie, he hadn’t exactly offered to join the study to make friends...and sure as hell not out of love for anthropology. He had simply wandered by a flyer last week on the south side lawn, a flyer now folded and crumpled on his kitchen table at home:

_Super Awesome Anthro PhD Candidate Seeking Alphas and Omegas!!!_

_For my dissertation project I’m conducting a cultural and communicative case study analyzing the impact of alpha/omega dynamics and nonverbal communication. Subjects must be willing to alter communication habits and (safely) adjust your chemistry (i.e., blockers)._  

_Requirements:_

_-Alpha or omega_

_-Over the age of 18_

_-Unmated_

_-Willing to submit a DNA sample_

_-Prepared to spend several hours each week for four months dedicated to this study. (I can work around your schedule!)_

_Serious inquiries only cbradbury@stanford.edu_

_**Generous cash stipends are offered through the Department of Anthropology for subjects who successfully complete the study**_

If Dean was being honest—which he’d been doing for twenty-three years on god’s green earth—he didn’t give a fuck about the cultural understanding of alpha and omega dynamics. Jesus, did he _not._ If anything, he was tired of talking about his secondary gender. Who cared if he had been born an omega in society where seventy percent of the population was beta? It was a random-ass, biological fluke. He was tired of omegas and alphas being romanticized little unicorns that everyone wanted to study and discuss and eventually take to bed. Well, actually…that last thing had worked out in his favor. Not that he needed any help in that department anyways, omega or no.

“Ain’t no skin off my nose, doc.” He waved his hands broadly and grinned.

“I told ya, dude,” Charlie scolded, amused, “I’m not a doctor yet—”

“Yeah yeah.”

He glanced down at Charlie’s clipboard curiously, and there it was—the same case study contract, outlining a four month timeline. But instead of his signature, this one was signed by the mystery man, Castiel, in cursive letters that were elegantly messy. Hmm, Dean thought. Dude’s got decent penmanship.

He clapped his hands together, looking at Charlie expectantly. “So what happens now?”

So far this whole process seemed pretty damn easy—he was gonna get a bunch of money just for sitting in a room with some guy for a few months. Well, not a _bunch_ , but still. Every little bit helped when you and your brainiac little brother were making a new life for yourselves on the west coast.

“Now, you take—” She reached into the bag slung on her shoulder, pulling out an aerosol spray can. Damn. The part of this whole thing Dean was _least_ looking forward to. “This bottle. And spray yourself up good.”

Dean angled the nozzle towards him, frowning. “How long we wearin’ blockers?”

“Uh...to be determined,” Charlie answered vaguely. “There are several different variables that I won’t know until the study begins. Actually, there was a similar outlier in the infamous alpha scenting case study of ‘09…”

Dean decided right about then to tune out of the conversation, ‘cause yeah, Charlie was great but this was getting into Sammy territory. Thankfully this didn’t feel as awkward as submitting the slick sample Charlie had requested, but then again, he was always up for a round of scientific masturbating. Fucking with the literal chemistry of his body was a whole ‘nother thing, but he sprayed himself thoroughly with the blockers regardless. When he finally blinked back into conscious, Charlie was saying, “That’s the most important rule, ya know?”

“Uh...yeah.” He wondered if he could just go along with it, but then remembered what the flyer said—you only got paid if you completed the whole study _successfully_ —and decided it was worth risking his pride. “Actually, can you repeat that?”

Charlie sighed softly. “The biggest thing to remember during the study is no talking, Dean. Okay? You and Castiel _cannot_ speak to each other. Like, ever. Promise?”

“Promise,” Dean said easily.

“Good, ‘cause if you skew my results I’ll kick your ass.” She nudged his elbow playfully, but Dean knew she meant it. “But the twist is, I’m sure you remember, is that you’re responsible for finding out as much info as you can about each other. You’ll take notes at the end of each session and occasionally debrief with me.”

“Got it.” They’d had longer versions of this conversation already—once over email and twice in person. He wasn’t sure why Charlie was repeating herself, but supposed it _was_ the first day and he hadn’t been paying great attention so far. If he was gonna do this right and snag a paycheck, he had to follow the rules. No matter how fucking strange.

“Awesomeness. Just lemme turn my cameras on, and I’ll head out…and send Castiel in.”

She shuffled the clipboard under her arm, then pulled a tiny tripod and camera from her bag. She placed it on the table, fiddling with the controls, then used a slender remote to turn on the equipment she had positioned in each corner of the room. She placed a small digital clock in the middle of the desk, and explained they could use this to measure time and stagger their exits. Dean just stood back, impressed. She was clearly a tech geek—maybe she could help him with his iPhone at some point. There were at least a half-dozen apps he still had no idea _quite_ how to use, and Sammy always made fun of him anytime he asked for help. Mega-nerd little brother.

Charlie finished up and headed towards the door. Before she turned the knob, she regarded him again. “Okay, Dean. Once more with feeling. What are you _not_ doing?”

“Talking,” Dean said flatly, ‘cause yeah, maybe he wasn’t the most attentive listener but he could follow some simple instructions. Keepin’ his trap shut—it’d be hard, sure, but he could do it. “Are you coming back first?”

“Nope. Until the case study wraps, I can’t be in the same room with you two at the same time. And neither can either of you—meet up outside the study, I mean.”

“Wanna gimme that again?” Dean had taken a seat at the table, folding his hands on the surface.

“I’ll meet up with each of you in private, but never together, and you’ll never meet with Castiel outside of this room...‘cause it’ll ruin my study and make me cry. Like, legit tears.” Despite her words, she smiled at him broadly. “No extra contact, inside or outside of this room. Got it?”

“Aye aye, captain.” Dean gave her a sarcastic half-salute for good measure and she grinned wryly, then spun on her heels and closed the door behind her.

Dean slumped in his seat, already feeling bored, wondering if he should pull out his notepad and pen—but no, Charlie had told him to only take notes _after_ his interaction with the guy. Castiel or whatever the hell his name was. The study had no maximum age, so the dude was almost definitely some elderly professor guy with nothing better to do with his summer. That was fine, as far as Dean was concerned. It’s _not_ that he was planning to phone it in, per se, but he had enough going on without putting too much time or effort in this weird little experiment. He would come drop in for the weekly sessions, whatever, but he’d probably spend the whole time daydreaming about driving down country roads in Baby or trying out a new pie recipe.

With that positive thought bouncing around his brain, the door creaked open. Dean glanced up, and—

His jaw dropped.

Noticeably.

Outrageously.

‘Cause walking towards him was the most gorgeous alpha Dean had ever seen.

Castiel was shorter than him, but not by much—a few inches maybe. His hair was dark brown and tousled, cheekbones high. His nose was slightly wide at the bottom, but Dean thought it suited him well. The edges of his face were slim yet rounded, and his entire body was lean and long. At first glance he was just incredibly attractive, but then Dean made eye contact with him—a vivid, deep shade of blue—and the stranger went from _super freaking hot_ to _holy mother of fucking god that’s the most attractive man I’ve ever seen._

A mumbled “hey there” was on the edge of Dean’s lips, but he caught it just in time, clearing his throat instead. This was definitely the kind of dude he would proposition at a bar for a one night stand, or a two night stand, hell, any amount of nights this guy was offering Dean was willing to take.

Instead, he’d be sitting in the same room with him for hours on end, never allowed to say a word…

Shit.

Castiel, who had been frozen in the doorway for whatever reason, finally closed the door behind him. For all his innate hotness, the dude didn’t have much going for him in the style department. Slacks, suit jacket, trench coat—seriously, what early-to-mid twenty something wore a goddamn trench coat? If Dean had to make a judgment call, he’d guess he was too old to be an undergrad but too young to be a full professor…maybe a grad student, like Charlie? Or a freshly-degreed adjunct that the university was sucking dry?

Castiel pulled out the chair opposite from Dean and sat down with a stiff tug. His messenger bag fell to his feet, and in the quiet room it sounded raucously loud, resounding on the floor. They both smiled at each other companionably, sharing the same awkward expression. Dean hadn’t sat in a quiet room for…damn, several years, since he last took a test in high school. And even then there were other things to focus on, other sounds coming from other people in the room—the rustling of papers, the whispers of students, the stray sneeze or cough coming from a nearby desk. He had never been in face to face silence with someone that was _intentional,_ that was fixated on another person completely.

He examined Castiel’s face, and found his own emotions reflected there—hesitation, nerves. He leaned into his seat, trying to look casual. Castiel followed the movement and Dean grinned, shrugging, as if to say _this is weird, right?_ Castiel nodded in understanding, then faltered…were they allowed to nod, or shake their heads? Fuck…that would be a question for Charlie to answer later.

Dean continued looking at Castiel—there were small indents on the bridge of his nose. Maybe he wore reading glasses? Dean thought back to the noisy _thunk_ that had been Castiel’s book bag falling to the floor…heavy books, obviously. Either he had some hefty textbooks he was carting around, or he had to read a fuck ton of different stuff for class. Sam had just started a summer course, an American lit survey or something, and had practically packed his books in a suitcase to carry all those fuckers home. Maybe Castiel could relate?

Snapping back into the present, he realized the man across the table was staring at him intently. Dean squirmed in his seat, wondering what the alpha was noticing about him. He had stopped by straight from work, so his navy blue trousers were damp with cooled sweat, his forming-fitting t-shirt grubby with dirt. Dean flushed, feeling embarrassed—no way a smartie pants like this goddamn dreamboat would ever consider going out with Dean, case study or not. Somehow Castiel seemed to sense Dean’s discomfort, his eyes shifting from his work uniform to Dean’s face, the gaze gentle and encouraging. With little else to do, Dean stared back. The exchange was deep and concentrated, strangely unblinking, and the depth of the silence was suddenly making Dean sweat.

How the actual fuck would he survive four months of this?

He wondered desperately what the alpha’s scent was. Most of the world walked around without a scent, a typical effect of being born beta. But alphas and omegas were different, the very essence of their gender tied to a unique fragrance, their emotions evident in the subtle notes of their aroma. Scenting was partially what drew alphas and omegas to each other, or conversely, what killed an otherwise perfect match. Dean usually dated betas—it was seventy percent of the dating pool, after all—but he had been on dates with an alpha or two. He had enjoyed Aaron’s scent, musty like a library book, but there had been no chemistry, so they had never gotten past their third date. Last year he had met Amara online, and even though she was smoking hot in her pictures, when they had finally met her bitter scent had made Dean nauseous. They had almost immediately agreed to stop seeing each other.

Having no fucking hint or clue what Castiel smelled like…

That might just drive Dean crazy.

He crossed his arms, thinking about how little detail Charlie had given him about the study, about _what_ exactly she was studying when it came to alphas and omegas. On one hand, it made sense—if he knew too much about it, he might end up ruining her project.

But on the other hand, he knew the scent blockers they were swimming in might be his biggest clue...

Dean decided that this would either be a colossal display of self-control or a huge fuck-up on Dean’s part. It was honestly a toss-up at this point, ‘cause as much as Dean liked Charlie… There was no way he wouldn’t try his damndest to get horizontal with this alpha the moment this months-long game of quiet mouse was over.

***

Normally Dean would walk to bum-fuck-Egypt just to retrieve his car from the staff parking lot, but the spring semester had ended three days ago, and along with it, the attendance of most students. Or, as he liked to refer to them in his head, _the trust fund babies_. Dean could already tell he would like working on-campus in the summer—it was quiet, for one, and a helluva lot less busy. An hour ago he had driven his ‘67 Impala right up to the main quad, parking in a service spot by Memorial Church, just a quick walk up to building fifty.

Exiting the Anthropology Department now, flustered and a little dazed, the proximity of Baby was the only thing grounding him. He opened his car door and put his key in the ignition, staring straight ahead, unwilling to move. He really should get going, though—Charlie had explained beforehand that he and Castiel would leave at different times, so they didn’t run into each other “in the wild” (her words, not his). She had instructed Dean to leave the moment the clock was at half-past five, and as much as he didn’t wanna leave Cas’ company, the intensity of the whole situation had already started to wear on him. That had been the longest, most stressful, most amazing thirty-two minutes of his life…and he needed time to process it all.

But he also had to write down his notes on the session, per Charlie’s instructions, before his first impression of Castiel faded into memory. So he put Baby in reverse and drove a few blocks to a local bakery that he and Sammy had begun to frequent. He ordered himself a slice of black licorice pie—hey, don’t knock it ‘till ya try it—paired with a cup of coffee. The chatty guy who worked behind the counter convinced Dean to order a peanut butter and banana cupcake for Sam to-go, since Sam had taken a liking to them on the rare days he allowed himself off the rabbit food diet. He would likely refuse the treat whenever Dean brought it home, but the kid had been worrying himself sick, waiting for his final exam grades to come in. Dean reckoned he deserved a distraction or two.

Once the cashier finally left Dean alone to his thoughts—the guy was funny and snarky, but so _not_ Dean’s type—he settled into his chair, pulled up the “notes” app on his phone, and began thinking about Castiel. He wasn’t quite sure what sort of details Charlie wanted him to mention about their first session, so rather than being guarded or reserved, he wrote out everything.

_Everything._

He started by describing Castiel—the hair, the lips, the eyes. He tried to convey the smaller things he had noticed, the upturned smile he gave with awkward uncertainty; the sight of his long, slender fingers clasped together on the table; the genuine apology and subsequent amusement on his face after Dean had tripped on the strap of Castiel’s messenger bag, stumbling clumsily in his race out the door. Good-fucking-looks aside, Dean already liked Castiel, honest to god, and he couldn’t understand _why._ The man hadn’t seemed unusually open or outgoing, so Dean typed out words like “shy” and “timid” before shaking his head. No, that wasn’t right. He replaced them with “coy” and “kind” and “self-assured” and felt much better about that assessment. He mentioned his observation about the books, hypothesizing that Castiel was probably a grad student with a high reading workload, maybe something like English or Literature. His bizarre attire could make him an adjunct professor, sure, but Dean figured the trench coat was probably just a personality quirk. The kind of thing Castiel would wear regardless of the setting, ‘cause he was kinda badass and nerdy that way.

Dean reread his notes, made a few changes for clarity, and—feeling satisfied that he had at least scratched the surface on getting closer to understanding the hottest dude in existence—copied and pasted his jumbled list into an email for Charlie. Once it was sent, he stood up, shaking flakes of pie crust off his shirt and headed for the door.

“Hold up there, handsome.” Damn, the cashier again. The guy was a little on the short side, with long brown hair and a freshly shaven face. He seemed nice enough, but again, Dean wasn’t interested.

“Look dude,” he started, holding Sam’s neatly boxed cupcake in one hand, and his car keys in the other, “I’m flattered and all, but—”

The guy tossed a rag over his shoulder, laughing. “Don’t flatter yourself, Bow-legged Beauty. I’m happily taken. Just wondering if you are.”

“Bit personal, dude.” Dean cleared his throat, surprised. “I know we come here a lot, but I don’t even know your name.”

“Gabriel.” The man reached over the counter, offering his hand to shake. Dean looked between the outstretched hand and the door, and took a side step, shaking Gabriel’s hand hesitantly. Before Dean could offer up his own name, Gabriel continued.

“Here’s the sitch. I gotta cute little baby bro who’s picky as all get-out, but has a holy tax accountant vibe that most people seem to dig. At the moment he has this friends-with-bennies type girl, but he’s ready for something more. If you bat for _his_ team, stick around and meet him. He’s dropping by in a few.”

Dean mulled it over. He technically already had a date tonight with a woman named Lisa, a front office associate for Building and Grounds he had been casually flirting with for a few weeks. They were meeting up for drinks at the Roadhouse, and two hours ago he’d been looking forward to it…but now he felt strangely muddled and uncertain.

“Appreciate it, man, but I already got a date tonight.” He shrugged, as if the situation couldn’t be helped. “And even if I didn’t, I’m not really looking for anything serious.”

Gabriel looked strangely disappointed, though his tone was dismissively chipper. “Hey, I get it. The bachelor lifestyle is hard to give up. If Kali hadn’t threatened me within an inch of my life to finally settle down, I’d probably be doing the same.”

“Sounds like a real love connection,” Dean said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm at bay.

“Oh, it was.” Gabriel either hadn’t picked up on Dean’s tone of voice or was tactfully ignoring it. “It was like…you ever meet someone and connect, just like that?” He snapped his fingers, as if Dean needed a demonstration.

“Not really…I dunno.” But Dean _did_ know, ‘cause Cas’ face appeared in his mind, lit up like he was sitting under a spotlight.

“You will one day. Being an omega…” Gabriel trailed off, probably realizing it was majorly rude to bring up a stranger’s secondary gender without prompting, especially since almost everyone (Gabriel included) was beta. It always annoyed Dean that randos thought they could bring it up casually, all _omega this_ and _omega that,_ but he liked Gabriel okay. He nodded, signaling that the man could continue.

“Well, you probably know the stories better than me,” Gabriel admitted. “Betas don’t get the one-true-mate speech.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard plenty of that.” Dean couldn’t keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice. “To some people I’m just a sweet, innocent omega waiting for my alpha to let down his hair and save me from the dragon or what the hell ever.”

“Wow,” Gabriel said, chuckling, “you just mixed up like…three different fairy tales. That’s impressive.”

“Whatever...point is,” Dean continued impatiently, “I don’t really buy into that whole, omega and alpha true mate bullshit.” It was a practiced speech, one he had given at parties and dates, at home and work, at every available opportunity. Dean valued his free will, so not even his biology could force him into a relationship he didn’t wanna pursue. But a smaller, more honest part of his brain reminded him that he was weirdly transfixed after just meeting Castiel today…

He was probably reading too much into it. He hadn’t exactly jumped across the table, begging for a knot and a bite mark. Their first meeting was nothing like the alpha and omega porn he would watch once in a blue moon, all animalistic and wild. But they had both been wearing blockers, which certainly made them more like normal people rather than ravenous sex fiends. But still, for whatever fucking reason, Dean couldn’t seem to get the alpha out of his head.

“Hold that thought. The baby bro’s coming in the back. We have fraternity business to discuss.” Gabriel ducked his head, opening the kitchen door wide.

Uh oh, this was _definitely_ Dean’s cue to leave. He had enough to worry about—last thing he wanted was to get stuck in an awkward, impromptu blind date with Gabriel’s brother. Who apparently was in a Stanford fraternity, along with Gabe. No fucking thanks.

“I gotta head out, man. Sammy’s probably dug a hole to China by now, freaking out about his exams.” He turned, jiggling his eyes. “Maybe next time.”

He didn’t wait for Gabriel’s reply, only waved a quick hand in the air before strutting down the sidewalk, searching for his car.

***   

Six hours later—after going home to shower and change, checking in on Sammy, picking up Lisa, going to the Roadhouse, then driving her back home, Dean was finally, _finally,_ home for the night.

“Woah,” Sam said, eyeing him from the couch as Dean closed the front door. Sam had a literature book tucked in his lap and a yellow highlighter in his hand. “First date and you’re back by ten?”

“Shuddup,” Dean mumbled flippantly, kicking off his shoes and shuffling into the kitchen for a beer. He had been on his best date behavior, only having one glass of whiskey the whole night, and the minuscule buzz had left his system hours ago. He plopped down beside Sam on the couch, accidentally sitting on a copy of Sam’s literature syllabus—much to Sam’s dismay.

“Well, you either _really_ like her or don’t like her at all,” Sam observed, wedging a finger into his tome of a schoolbook so he wouldn’t lose his place. Dean only shrugged, and Sammy frowned. “So, the latter, huh?”

“She’s sweet and cute, but I dunno…” Dean sighed and reached towards the coffee table for the remote control, which was effectively buried under the contents of Sam’s backpack. “There wasn’t really a spark.”

Sam chuckled in disbelief. “Since when does Dean Winchester require a ‘spark’ for a one night stand?”

“Hey,” Dean complained, flipping through the TV guide, “sex isn’t all I think about y’know.”

The slight edge to his voice made Sam turn quiet and settle further into the couch. Dean looked sideways at his brother, forcing an apologetic smile on his face. He’d had a long and weird day, but that wasn’t Sammy’s fault. He tilted his head towards the TV, Sam following his gaze. “Whaddya think—Daphne or Doctor Sexy?”

Any possibility of tension slipped from his eighteen-year-old brother’s face, and he grinned in amusement. “Those are both _your_ fictional crushes, dude. You pick.”

“Fair enough.” Dean was feeling nostalgistic, spending a Friday night planted on the couch with Sammy, so he picked an old episode of _Scooby Doo._ He grimaced when Fred’s annoying face immediately filled the screen. “Daphne could do so much better,” he grumbled, taking a long sip of his beer.

“Hey,” Sam said abruptly, as if a thought had just occurred to him, “how’d that case study go today? You barely mentioned it earlier.”

Dean stiffened. He had intentionally avoided telling Sam about it—the perceptive little shit (who he’d do anything for, but that was beside the point). Dean still needed to sweep all his mixed emotions under the rug before discussing it, and he had hoped his date with Lisa would be enough of a distraction. Unfortunately it had done the opposite—he’d had more chemistry _not_ talking to Castiel than he did after hours of talking and drinking with Lisa.

“It was fine,” he mumbled briskly, then turned up the volume and eased further into the sofa. He zoned out for a few minutes, chuckling to himself. He loved this goddamn talking dog and had zero embarrassment about that fact.

“That’s...descriptive,” Sam muttered derisively. Dean turned his head sideways, trying to find some detail to mention that would pacify Sam. He had to remind himself that his prodigy of a brother was obviously just interested in the “science” of it all, and Dean couldn’t fault him for being curious.

“It was weird, sitting in silence for so long,” Dean offered vaguely.

“Like, awkward?” Sam stood up, heading straight for the pantry. He came back with a bag of veggie straws, which Dean had long ago decreed pointless sticks of crunchy air. Still, he kept Sam’s snack stash in permanent rotation on their grocery list.

“Not really. Just…intense.” Dean knew he was being ambiguous, but really, it was the best he could do under the circumstances. Sam nodded understandingly, placated for the moment.

“So it’s half an hour, once a week?” Sam crunched a large handful of his snack and Dean had an overwhelming hankering for real chips. He knew there were some in the pantry, but that would require things like moving, and he was perfectly comfortable at the moment.

“Yep, every Friday, all summer long.” He closed his eyes and leaned into the couch, letting his head fall heavy. He had a whole week before he saw Castiel again, and the thought left him disappointed and nervous and relieved all at once. It was a weird confliction, and combined with the constant somersaults in his stomach anytime he pictured the guy, led Dean to one god-awful conclusion.

After just thirty minutes of staring into Castiel’s eyes, Dean Winchester had a crush.

One he couldn’t do anything about.

Sam laughed then, pointing at the TV. Dean blinked himself back into awareness, watching Shaggy and Scooby frantically paddle across a lake as a phantom followed close behind.

“You’d think they’d eventually realize their escape attempts never work,” Sam mused, grinning.

“Yep,” Dean said quietly, tone somewhat wistful, hoping another beer might scrub the image of Castiel from his brain. “Some things ya just can’t run from.”

 


	2. June

Castiel was not thinking about Dean whatever-his-last-name-was. No, he was not. He without a doubt, with certainty, was not thinking about—

“Hey, earth to Clarence.” Meg dragged her lips over the slope of Castiel’s neck, nipping energetically at the tender skin. “I’m doing my best work here and you’re on planet Hot Dude from the Case Study.”

“Am not,” Castiel grumbled. He pulled away, giving himself more space on the futon. Why he let Gabriel convince him to attend these ridiculous “Thirsty Thursday” parties every week was beyond him. More to the point, he was a member of this fraternity because it looked good on his resume and it appeased Gabe. His brother was the only member of his family that Castiel kept in touch with, so it had seemed worth it at the time to volunteer as the frat secretary, pay his semester dues regularly, and show his face at the parties. Parties where he’d always been content to mess around with his friends-with-benefits, fellow grad student Meg.

But that had been before Dean.

After four tortuously silent weeks, Castiel was living squarely in the “during Dean” era of his life, and thus far, it had been absolute hell. All the stolen glances, the all-out staring, the subtle shifts of their bodies as they attempted to explore each other without words. It was exciting, intoxicating, thrilling—and hell, all the same.

Castiel had never wanted someone more in his entire life.

“You should’ve picked a way to get service hours that made you less cranky,” Meg complained, referring to the frat’s required ten hours of community service each semester. In absence of making out, which she had failed to coax out of him all night, Meg snatched the red solo cup from Castiel’s hand and took a long drink. “You could’ve walked dogs or played cards with old ladies. Knocked all your hours out in a few weekends. Instead you had to give some rando a sample of your sperm before you were even approved, now you’re spending all summer staring at a major omega hottie and foaming at the mouth.”

“Can we just…” Castiel shut his eyes tight, hoping it might help clear his head. “Talk about something else?”

“Oooh, you’ve got the I-get-to-see-Dean-tomorrow jitters. Like every other Thursday. Gotcha.” When Castiel cracked his eyes open again, Meg was grinning teasingly, nudging his shoulder. There was obscenely worded hip-hop ricocheting loudly up the staircase, and Castiel could feel the vibrations through the floorboards. He thought Gabe would scale back a bit during the summer, but there was enough Greek life on-campus during breaks that Castiel now realized he would never escape it. Gabe and Kali loved a good party so much, they essentially _were_ the party.

“I get it, though,” Meg mused, adjusting herself on the futon until her feet were resting in Castiel’s lap. “If I met a sweet-assed omega, I’d wanna tap the hell outta that.”

Meg was one of the only other alphas Castiel knew. It was essentially the only reason he had confided in her about Dean to begin with—he figured, as someone with the same secondary gender, maybe he could find support and understanding from Meg about his predicament.

Unfortunately, as the idiom went, he had been barking up the wrong tree.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” he snapped. He felt Meg grow tense, pulling her feet out of his lap and drawing them to her chest. Castiel took a deep breath, hoping his next words would come out more calmly. “I just...I don’t want to come across as some alpha knothead. I haven’t even scented him, so it’s not about him being an omega. It’s about _him_ , as a person, and how he’s—”

“Funny, charming, considerate,” Meg repeated flatly. Castiel flushed, not realizing he had talked about Dean _quite_ this much already. “It’s romantic and all, Clarence, but how can you learn that much about a person without exchanging a damn word? How do you know you’re not projecting who you _want_ this guy to be just ‘cause he’s Hottie McHot Pants?”

Meg had a good point and Castiel knew it. She could be smart and perceptive whenever she let her guard down enough to show it. “I know it doesn’t make sense, okay? But I feel like I know him.” Castiel sighed, head in his hands, elbows planted on his knees. “I sound like an insane person.”

“You sound like a person who needs to get laid.” She slumped forward, eye makeup dark and smokey, dragging a thumb across Castiel’s bottom lip. “How ‘bout it, professor? Word in the hallways is, my blowjobs are A-plus.”

Castiel chuckled, waving her off good-naturedly. A month ago he would’ve leapt at the chance, but now… “You’re the one with the student-teacher kink, not me,” he reminded her gently. “I have actual students who I have to face three times a week.” For Meg’s graduate assistantship, rather than teaching, she was in charge of the department’s literary journal.

“I dunno how you do it,” she speculated, collapsing solidly against the couch. “Literature is fucking sexy. All those metaphors and similes…” She stretched, her back arched, and raised an eyebrow.

“Hemingway does have one of the most effective descriptions of a simultaneous orgasm,” Castiel noted conversationally. “We’re discussing the passage next week in class.”

“See!” Meg pointed at him victoriously. “All the more reason for you to fuck Case Study Guy, like, _yesterday._ Preferably somewhere public, so I can watch.” She winked outlandishly, but before Castiel could reply, she held a finger up. “On that note, I’ve been meaning to ask. This thing we’re doing, you and me, it’s…?”

The implication of something _being over_ was simmering, masked in her tone, and Castiel nodded.

“I’m afraid so,” he said. It had been a fun run, but he was in a much different place now than when they had started messing around in the fall. “You are my best friend, though.”

“Good to know,” she replied breezily, though Castiel wasn’t sure if she was referring to their new, platonic friend zone situation or the fact that Castiel had just declared them best friends. Either way, she gulped whatever was remaining in their shared solo cup, then stood up, face smooth and determined. “Time to go back on the hunt, then.”

“Hm,” Castiel said sympathetically. “I hear Alfie is single.”

Meg cackled roariously. “Oh, Clarence...”

“Think he can handle you?” Castiel meant it as a rhetorical question, ‘cause no—there was no way Alfie could keep up.

Meg opened the door, sandals dragging across the hardwood, her expression dark and mischievous. “Only one way to find out.”

***

The next day’s session with Dean made Castiel feel as though he was holding his breath for thirty continuous minutes. Just being in the omega’s presence made his body feel taut and edgy, as if he was on the right track being around Dean but something was still missing. Honestly, when it came to their interactions, many things were missing. For a month they had relied entirely on sight in order to learn about each other—and while Castiel had surmised quite a bit from Dean’s body movements, eye contact, posture, and gestures—it wasn’t enough.

There was a tiny part of his consciousness that knew it would never be enough. That was in the very nature of having a crush.

Still, Castiel used the rationale of scientific exploration when he stood up suddenly, in the middle of their otherwise tensely familiar session. Dean, whose expression had been cheeky and allusive for fifteen minutes straight, glanced at Castiel in surprise. They had never done this before, crossed the boundary of the table, and it felt bold and brash on Castiel’s part. Trying to find a way to explain he was only invading Dean’s personal space for, uh, _scientific reasons,_ Castiel caught his eye and then tapped his temple. Dean squinted in confusion, then either seemed to understand or blindly trust Castiel’s intentions, moving his chair over to the side. Catching the invitation, Castiel picked up his own chair and placed it beside Dean’s. Like all other sounds in the otherwise quiet room, the shuffle of wood against concrete jolted them both. Castiel had become much more sensitive to noise lately, seeking silence out whenever he was alone and trying not to think too closely on why it comforted him.

There were things Castiel had learned about the omega over the past few weeks—for instance, the grubby work attire obviously meant Dean spent most of the day laboring outside. But once he finally took a seat beside him, both turning to face each other, the scent of nature was even more palpable. Dean smelled earthy and rich and Castiel reached for the other man’s hand before realizing it, examining the small scratches and cuts on Dean’s palm. Dean’s breath became more labored at the contact, their first real touch, but he didn’t jerk away. Castiel brushed his thumb across the thin scratches, mulling them over like a clue. He had seen similar marks on his mother’s hands after she finished gardening…he looked up, triumphant. Dean probably worked for Building and Grounds on-campus, Castiel was sure of it. He was also undoubtedly given gloves to wear, but obviously, refused to wear them at times. Stubborn and tough, Castiel thought. Dean was undoubtedly both.

Castiel couldn’t bring himself to drop the man’s hand, yearning to scent every inch of the unwaveringly gorgeous omega. He stifled a growl then, just thinking about the scent blockers—he hated wearing them, hated that Dean had to wear them. He had never wanted to scent a single person so fiercely, so viscerally in his life. As if reading Castiel’s thoughts, Dean seemed to unconsciously—or consciously?—tilt his head to the side, elbow on the table and head resting in his unclaimed palm. It was an invitation for scenting, a biological welcome sign. More than anything Castiel wanted to wet his lips and drag them across the muscular slope of Dean’s stunning, unmated skin, leaving bruises nips and kisses—

And then Castiel’s stomach growled loudly in the empty room, making him flush in embarrassment. Oops. He had skipped lunch today and it audibly showed. Dean only chuckled, the sound easygoing and unruffled. He pulled his hand away, much to Castiel’s disappointment, but then kneeled beside his chair. He came back up with a brown paper sack rolled at the top, and extracted a partially smushed sandwich, diagonally cut. Castiel watched in near amazement as Dean opened the plastic baggie and offered Castiel half. Figuring it would be more rude to refuse, and feeling genuinely hungry, he took a half. They cheers’d their snack together at Dean’s insistence, lovable dork that he was, and Castiel took a tentative bite. It was a PB&J sandwich with jelly, not jam. Castiel’s favorite.

And then they sat together side by side, knees and shoulders occasionally brushing, until it was time to leave. They shared a small frown of goodbye when parting, and Castiel left the room wondering if his crush wasn’t quite as unrequited as he imagined.

***

The next week Castiel conducted conferences with his students at the local bakery near campus. Gabriel worked there part-time, so the flow of free coffee and pastries was always present. Plus, his students seemed to open up more in non-academic setting, and when discussing paper topics for their final portfolio he liked to encourage an open dialogue. Today he was meeting individually with the students in his American lit survey class, largely freshmen transitioning into their sophomore year come fall.

Around lunchtime he met with Jessica Moore, a sweet and unassuming girl whose analysis of Sylvia Plath’s _Ariel_ gave him thoughtful pause. After an incredibly heartening twenty minute discussion—she was certainly one of the brighter students in class; the six students previous hadn’t even settled on a topic yet—she said goodbye, passing Sam Winchester and blushing as she went. Castiel didn’t like to get involved in, or even be aware of, student romances. But thanks to his burgeoning feelings for the mysterious omega Dean, which were making him uncharastically saccharine, he decided that he would pair Jessica and Sam up on the upcoming group project. Someone should have a shot at a normal love life, even if it wasn’t Castiel.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Professor Novak,” Sam said in a rush, taking the seat Jessica had just occupied, “sometimes I meet my brother for lunch, and we went off-campus, but then he couldn’t find anywhere close enough to park so he had to drop me off—”

“Your hunk of a big brother, huh?” Gabriel called from the counter. Castiel fought the urge to roll his eyes. His brother’s nosiness knew no bounds.

“Can you not bother my students while we’re conferencing, Gabriel?” he said tightly. Sam looked taken aback, so Castiel sighed, clarifying, “Apologies, Sam. This is my older brother Gabriel.”

“I know our dear boy, Sammy,” Gabriel said, wiping his floured hands on the front of his apron. With no customers around he came from behind the counter and perched himself casually against the wall. “He and his brother stop by once in a while. You remember, Cassie, that cute little omega I was trying to set you up with—”

“Gabriel,” Castiel said sharply, a warning in his tone. He was mortified that his brother was talking about his student’s _brother_ in this way, during a student conference no less.

“I actually think that’s a good idea,” Sam said thoughtfully. Though he was only a freshman, Sam was uncharacteristically mature for his age, and always had incredibly perceptive insights to offer in class. “I think you’re awesome, Professor Novak. You two might actually hit it off.”

Castiel gave his student a small, patient smile. “Thank you, Sam, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate for me to pursue a relationship with one of your family members while you’re still my student.” _And I’m sort of already smitten with someone I barely know…_

“You’re missing out, baby bro,” Gabriel warned, wagging his finger. “He’s tall, mouthy, dreamy—just like ya like ‘em.”

Castiel shook his head, awash with frustration. He had only allotted twenty minutes for each conference and Gabriel had taken up half of Sam’s time making tasteless comments about his brother. “You’re about to be short, silent, and permanently in the ground if you don’t end this senseless conversation,” he growled.

Gabriel put his hands up in silent surrender and went back to the counter, though he muttered under his breath, “ _Somebody’s_ being an alpha asshat today…”

Castiel couldn’t stop the smirk from forming on his lips. His brother might be older than him, but Castiel had never been one to let himself be walked all over. His brothers Michael and Lucifer had tested his resolve for years, but he had refused to back down, even when he informed them about his plans to pursue teaching instead of joining the lucrative family business. Once he enrolled in Stanford’s PhD program and his family realized how serious he was, Castiel had been effectively cut off from the Novak family funds. That was another reason why he had enrolled in the case study. A grad school budget was tight, and every little bit helped.

“I apologize again for the disruption,” Castiel said ruefully, taking a long sip from his mug. “If I remember correctly, you were considering _A Moveable Feast_ for your term paper?”

“Definitely,” Sam said excitedly, pulling an outline from his backpack. “So get this…”

***

The rest of Castiel’s week passed in an unremarkable fashion. He continued his preparations on the Hemingway unit, began considering potential topics for his own thesis, and spent the usual, Thursday night fraternity party watching Meg and Alfie make out. Rather distastefully, he’d add. By the time Friday afternoon rolled around again, Castiel hadn’t been able to keep Dean out of his mind. He arrived in building fifty almost an hour early.

He always had some time to kill on Fridays, between teaching his two o’clock American lit class and his five o’clock session with Dean. Today’s class had been particularly lively, and he was pleased that his students were enjoying Hemingway’s more provocative writing. Though Castiel usually taught outside of the classic canon whenever possible—everyone had read their fair share of straight, white male authors—he still had a particular fondness for Hemingway and Faulkner. He always managed to squeeze them into one unit, even in a rushed summer course like this.

To spend his time wisely, he retreated into their usual meeting room and spread out a stack of ungraded quizzes, along with his gradebook and the novel split open, the passage in question highlighted in yellow and marked with Castiel’s marginal comments.

Forty minutes later, his reading glasses were slipped to the edge of his nose and he was in an excellent grading rhythm whenever the door cracked open. Castiel looked up, panicked—Dean was early, by nearly twenty minutes. It had been over a month and Dean had never been early. Castiel had meant to pack up his belongings and have them safely tucked away by the time their session began. He shuffled his papers frantically, searching for his folder. The gesture knocked over his cup of coffee, the contents spilling all over the jacketed edition of _For Whom the Bell Tolls._

Dean jumped immediately into action, pulling a greased rag from the deep pockets of his work trousers and wiping the sleeve clean. Almost unconsciously, he flipped the book around, reading the page where it had been opened. Castiel attempted to protest, but then remembered—he physically couldn’t tell him to stop. Surely they weren’t supposed to exchange any form of writing, and that included print media, but Castiel was frozen and unsure. Dean was already reading, and Castiel watched him with wide eyes, knowing the passage by heart:

_With the sun shining on her hair, tawny as wheat, and on her gold-brown smooth-lovely face and on the curve of her throat he bent her head back and held her to him and kissed her. He felt her trembling as he kissed her and he held the length of her body tight to him and felt her breasts against his chest through the two khaki shirts, he felt them small and firm and he reached and undid the buttons on her shirt and bent and kissed her and she stood shivering, holding her head back, his arm behind her. Then she dropped her chin to his head and then he felt her hands holding his head and rocking it against her. He straightened and with his two arms around her held her so tightly that she was lifted off the ground, tight against him, and he felt her trembling and then her lips were on his throat, and then he put her down and said, “Maria, oh, my Maria.”_

_Then he said, “Where should we go?”_

_She did not say anything but slipped her hand inside of his shirt and he felt her undoing the shirt buttons and she said, “You, too. I want to kiss, too.”_

_Then there was the smell of heather crushed and the roughness of the bent stalks under her head and the sun bright on her closed eyes and all his life he would remember the curve of her throat with her head pushed back into the heather roots and her lips that moved smally and by themselves and the fluttering of the lashes on the eyes tight closed against the sun and against everything, and for her everything was red, orange, gold-red from the sun on the closed eyes, and it all was that color, all of it, the filling, the possessing, the having, all of that color, all in a blindness of that color. For him it was a dark passage which led to nowhere, then to nowhere, then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere, always and forever to nowhere, heavy on the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark, never any end to nowhere, hung on all time always to unknowing nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away from under them._

Castiel couldn’t look away. He stared unapologetically as Dean’s face went from curious to intrigued to absolutely flushed, and he couldn’t even fumble out an apology or an explanation, couldn’t justify any of this. When Dean finally finished, he pulled the book down from his line of vision and regarded Castiel fully. He was blushing, that much was evident, but he still took a step closer to Castiel. He tipped the book forward, the edge of the hardcover touching the fabric of Castiel’s suit jacket, and Castiel wrapped his hand around the bottom…brushing Dean’s hand. Dean gasped softly and Castiel could feel the hammer of his heartbeat, a sudden acceleration occurring once they touched. They stood that way for longer than Castiel cared to admit, holding the book and each other’s hands by extension, immobile and staring and entirely transparent about their intentions. Castiel was positioned unconsciously with his legs spread apart, lips parted and waiting. Dean lowered his eyelashes and gazed at Castiel with a lilt of hopefulness, of urgency. His eyes were just so incredibly, impossibly green and Castiel felt swallowed in by them, felt like time was just a concept around Dean because it was moving fast and slow and static all at once. Dean licked his lips and Castiel shifted closer, tracking the sliver of tongue as it wetted Dean’s pursued lips. Then his hand was inching upwards and towards Dean’s chin, ready to touch and stroke and caress, and this was it, he was finally going to kiss the man he had spent four weeks obsessing over—

And then there was a scream. Or, more accurately, a squeal.

“What are you two doing here so early?” Charlie shouted. Realizing she had essentially asked them both to speak, she quickly added, “Don’t answer that question!”

Castiel lowered his hand and cleared his throat, dropping the book on the table with a thud.

“Just—uh, crap. Dean, come to my office and explain this.” She gave Castiel a _stay-put_ point of the finger and he nodded obediently. Dean sighed, tucking his hands in his pockets nonchalantly, though Castiel wondered if that was just a way to calm his nerves. He shut the door behind him, and Castiel immediately collapsed into the chair, on the verge of panicking.

They had almost kissed.

Castiel had almost kissed Dean.

And Charlie knew it.


	3. July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOTS of amazing art in this chapter, so get ready and enjoy!!

The sand burned warm between Dean’s toes, and he squirmed in his chair, searching for his seldom-used flip flops. Further down the shore, looking strangely at home between two crashing waves, his brother was beckoning him.

“Get your lazy ass out here!” Sam called, his voice ringing loud and playful. Dean just tossed him a “maybe later” wave of the hand, and popped open the cooler, pulling the coldest Margiekugel from its sheath of melting ice. The sun was high and unyielding above, the sky void of any potential cloud cover. It was a warm day for their little slice of coastal California, close to eighty degrees, and Dean could feel his neck growing red with heat—the span of his shoulders glowing with tones of muted pink. Despite working outside all day, his back and shoulders were always covered by his uniform. But after a couple hours at Coyote Point Park, Dean would undoubtedly be left with a sunburn.

An unbidden image darted across his mind then: Castiel—or Cas, as Dean had started calling him, though only to himself—being here. Sitting beside him, in Sam’s unoccupied chair. He would be wearing patterned blue swimming shorts, sporting dark and mirrored aviator sunglasses, and look hot as hell with little to no effort. Maybe he would scold Dean for not wearing sunscreen—it honestly seemed like the kind of thing Cas would nag him about—and even reach into his own bag for a hefty bottle of SPF 50. After some disgruntled teasing he would smear the cold, white cream across Dean’s neck and shoulders. Dean would get a sudden chill, even on this sunny day, and it wouldn’t just be because of sunscreen. Eventually Cas’ methodical and medicinal touch would grow deeper, more tender and intentional. He’d massage the tight muscle of Dean’s shoulders until he felt pliable and relaxed under Castiel’s hands, eyes closing, head tilting to the side. He’d hum in quiet bliss while Cas’ lips found the sweet spot behind Dean’s ear, the place that always drove him wild, and then—

“Dean!” Sam was no longer in the ocean but standing in front of him, towel-drying his mane of hair. His expression was incredulous with a hint of impatience, and Dean blinked rapidly, trying to rejoin a conversation he hadn’t been aware he was involved in.

“Uh, hey’a Sammy.” He took a long sip of his abandoned beer and tented his vision with a raised hand. “Enjoyin’ your time swimming with the sharks?”

“Very few underwater mammals will get this close to the shore, actually,” Sam said matter-of-factly, and Dean rolled his eyes. Obviously his brother wouldn’t appreciate a good joke if it swam right up and took a bite from his goofy, gigantic shoulders. “Anyways, yeah, the water’s good. Just cold. Ready to head back when you are.”

“Thank god.” Dean was standing up in an instant, patting the creases of his red swimming shorts for remnants of sand. It’s not that Dean didn’t love a good day off, but he’d rather do it on a lake with a fishing pole in his hand. Beach days were the kind of things Sammy liked, so Dean didn’t mind going along with it. It was a holiday weekend, though, so the water was full of sailors and windsurfers and it had been near impossible to find a damn parking spot. Tourists.

Dean began packing up in record time.

“Where’s the fire?” Sam quipped, though he bent over to help Dean continue packing. They had only been here for a few hours, but the amount of stuff necessary to make the beach comfortable would barely fit in the Impala’s trunk.

And that was saying something.

Dean folded the two beach chairs, then picked up his towel, drying off his torso. He eyed the crowded beach, searching for a face he had grown so accustomed to seeking—but had never spotted in public. He felt a little stalkerish lately, but he had spent more time wandering around town, stopping by places he could imagine Cas hanging around during his non-case-study hours. You know—libraries, coffee shops, wherever adorable nerd hotties spent their personal time.

So far, his search had produced nada.

“You’re doing it again,” Sam warned.

“Huh?” Distracted, his eyes fell over a huddle of mid-twentysomethings dudes, loud and belligerent. His mouth was hanging open when he turned around, facing his brother fully.

“You know what I mean.” Sam secured the lid on the cooler, looking amused. “You’re looking for that case study guy. Right?”

“Shuddup.” Dean scratched nervously at the back of his neck, then winced. Fuck, the sunburn was already setting in. He needed to get inside. They were going to a Fourth of July cookout tonight at Ellen’s. Ellen—who had become a sort of surrogate mother to them over the past year. Dean wondered if he could talk his way off grill duty—pending the severity of his sunburn, of course—and be in charge of the fireworks instead. He and Sammy had a longtime love for fireworks. Ten years ago, they had almost burnt down an entire field. It was one of Dean’s favorite memories.

“Your crush…it’s cute. Really.” Sam’s voice was teasing, as it had been for weeks—the minute Dean had come clean about his new obsession. No, not obsession. Creepy stalker people were obsessive. Dean was just, well...

Infatuated.

In a totally and completely healthy way.

It was a passing crush, which is exactly what he had told Charlie last month in her office, when she had walked in on them about to...uh...

He wouldn’t let himself think the word _kiss_ but there it was, laying heavy as an anvil in his stomach. Dean had driven himself crazy lately, wondering if the almost-kiss with Cas had been real or imagined. Charlie hadn’t called it a kiss, which was encouraging (or discouraging, depending on your perspective) but she had scolded them for interacting before the official half-hour window of the study began. On top of all that, she had been asking more pointed questions lately. It made Dean believe she knew there was a strong and unexplainable pull happening between the alpha and omega, but how could he prove that? Since being reprimanded by Charlie, Dean had been on his best behavior, and their sessions had evolved as a result. Gone were the days of quiet, aimless staring. Now Dean was pretty sure he could have a full-on conversation with Castiel simply from eye contact alone.

He couldn’t really explain the intimacy, the easy way they expressed themselves to each other, and was having difficulty putting it into words for Charlie. On paper and in-person. And he certainly struggled to understand their more charged moments—the purse of wetted lips, the suggestion of a raised eyebrow. Sometimes he forgot that Charlie was watching them on-camera, and whenever he remembered their unconcealed flirting was being watched by Big Brother, he would blush and look away, embarrassed.

More and more each session, Dean wanted to lunge across the table and jump Cas’ bones. But he wasn’t enough of a voyeur to want Charlie to watch that—plus, he was pretty sure the redhead beta had mentioned having a girlfriend. If she wanted to know more about alpha and omega sex habits, she would’ve picked a different thesis project altogether.

“It’s just…” Sam was speaking again, rousing Dean again from his thoughts. Wow, he was gonna be shit for company today. He really needed to get it together. “Should you even be looking for this guy? Wouldn’t meeting up outside of the study ruin things for Dr. Bradbury?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbled. The crowded beach, his pending sunburn, and this depressing conversation was making him inherently grouchy. “I’m not actually gonna see him. There’s what, forty thousand people around these parts? We’re not gonna run into each other reaching for the same beach umbrella.”

Sam looked unconvinced, but stayed quiet, packing up the remainder of their gear and beginning the trek towards the Impala. Dean filled his arms as well, but before he could turn and follow his brother, he overheard the group of loudmouths behind him shouting rude obscenities about someone’s “sweet omega ass.” Dean felt his teeth begin to grind, but kept walking, ignoring them the best he could. Being a male omega often translated into society assuming he was weak and feeble.

Society was dead fucking wrong.

But it was a holiday and, so far, a good day with Sam. Rather than ruining all that and jumping those idiots—like every instinct in his body begged him to do—he finished loading the car instead. A few moments later, when Dean was backing Baby out of her tight parking spot, Sam’s face turned bright with an idea. He clearly hadn’t overheard the cat-calling, which was honestly, just as fucking well. Sammy tended to worry and Dean preferred to save them both the headache.

“Hey, what if...” Sam paused, seeming to consider the best way to word his thoughts. Unfortunately his hesitation only set Dean on edge. Sam was only cautious if he was suggesting something Dean would normally want to avoid... “To help you get over this mystery dude, what if I set you up with someone?”

Dean turned onto the main highway and groaned. “What is it about people trying to set me up lately?”

Sam squinted his eyes in curiosity. “Wait—who else...?”

“Gabe, that dude from the bakery. He tried setting me up with some frat guy.” Dean chuckled, thinking about how different that guy must be from Cas. Castiel seemed like the last kind of person who would participate in Greek life, though Dean had been known to attend a sorority party or two. A guy had needs and all that jazz.

“Huh,” Sam said, shaking his head. “That’s right. Well, funny story. They’re actually the same person. Professor Novak is Gabe’s brother, which I found out during our last conference and forgot to mention. He’s really nice and smart and cool—”

“Novak?” Dean repeated, sparing a quick and skeptical glance at Sam. “As in, ‘Novak Hall, College of Business’ at Stanford?”

“Yeah...” Sam said slowly, thoughtfully. “Hmm, I bet him and Gabe must both be _those_ Novaks. I’d never thought about it before.”

Dean huffed, shaking his head. It was just like Sammy not to think about the fact that his “nice guy” professor was really some stuck-up, academic snob. Just another trust fund baby to add to the ever-growing list. “Well, good on you Sammy. You have the fresh prince of Stanford teaching you lit. Kudos.”

“Dean,” Sam said, a sharpness to his voice, “what’s your issue with everyone you meet lately? Just ‘cause they might have a few extra zeros in their bank accounts doesn’t mean they’re all bad. And we don’t even know if my professor or Gabe are part of the family legacy in that way. He’s teaching literature and Gabe works at a freaking bakery. Not exactly following in the family footsteps.”

Sam had a good point and Dean knew it. But Novak discussion aside, this was an old argument between them. Dean would never feel totally at ease at this school or in this town. He had moved to California for Sam and had no regrets about that. But he struggled to fit in with the people as well as Sammy did—his insecurities sometimes got the better of him.

“It’s good that you always wanna see the best in people.” Dean put on his deepest, most attentive voice. “I mean it. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll pass on a date with Richie Rich.”

Sam sighed in disappointment, leaning against the leather seat and looking out the window.

***

Two days later Dean entered building fifty feeling stiff and tired. He had gotten sunburnt on the beach, that was for-fucking-sure. He took his—now usual—seat right beside Cas, wincing as the collar of his shirt rubbed against his skin. The amount of worry creased on Cas’ forehead when he spotted his discomfort was way more adorable than it had any right to be, and when Dean tried to shrug off the other man’s worry, he ended up agitating his burnt skin all over again. Fuck. Castiel frowned sympathetically and mouthed a word, which took Dean several glances to fully comprehend. _Aloe vera?_ Dean shook his head sheepishly. He wasn’t the type to actually treat his ailments, figuring if it couldn’t be fixed with duct tape and stitches, then it must be not be all that bad. Castiel openly admonished him for this, though, shaking his head side to side in disapproval. Dean chuckled, practically feeling a _tsk-tsk_ coming on, and threw his hands up in surrender. He mouthed _fine, okay_ and that seemed to pacify Cas, the alpha flashing him a wide and gummy smile.

Dean really wanted to find a way to make Cas keep giving him that smile.

A new idea occurred to him then, another way to learn about each other. He challenged Castiel to a game of thumb-wrestling, which he figured was just childish enough to be cute and charming. The alpha threw himself into the notion completely, even showing a flash of competitive spirit when he bested Dean in their final round. Emboldened and having a suspicious amount of fun, they moved onto a game of slaps—positioning their hands above each other, with the bottom hands attempting to catch the other off-guard in a stinging smack. It turned out Castiel was better at that game too, though Dean internally blamed his irregularly long fingers. He couldn’t deny that the alpha had amazing reflexes, especially for someone who apparently spent most of his time curled up with a book. By the end of it they were both laughing at the absurd silliness of it all, the tops of their hands stinging. Dean was pleased to find that Cas’ laugh had an unbelievably deep timbre to it. Not for the first time, he wondered what his mystery alpha actually sounded like.

In one short month he might finally know.

***

A few days later, around lunchtime, he was surprised to see Charlie’s office phone number pop-up on his cellphone. With a raised finger Dean walked away from the picnic table where he and his coworker, Benny, were sharing their brown-paper-bagged lunches. He was curious and a little suspicious about receiving a phone call from Charlie—so far all of their correspondence had been in-person or via email. He was still sending her weekly notes on his sessions with Cas, and it was becoming increasingly harder to keep his feelings at bay. He knew Charlie was open to whatever thoughts he wanted to share, but he doubted his new beta friend wanted to know about all the spank bank material he had amassed lately that featured one tall, blue-eyed alpha.

“Hello?” Dean answered the phone tentatively, as if Charlie might have the wrong number.

“Well look at that, it’s my favorite omega!” Charlie’s voice was bright and chipper as always, and Dean felt himself grinning on instinct.

“I’d say you’re my favorite beta, but that’s like, most of the people I know,” he replied cheekily.

“Hmm, do at least rank in your top twenty?”

Dean wandered around the outside of the Building and Grounds building, scraping his boot against the brick siding. “Oh, top ten, easy.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Charlie celebrated, and Dean snorted, flooded with earnest affection for this oddball geek of a girl he had met through pure happenstance.

“As much as I’m loving the social call, Char, I’m assuming you’re calling for a reason?” he asked, checking his watch—only ten minutes left of his lunch break and he still had half a sandwich to inhale.

“Yes, right, okay.” She cleared her throat, as if this next bit had been rehearsed. “I wanted to call you and Castiel and let you both know a couple days in advance. For the remainder of the sessions we’ll be nixing the scent blockers, so don’t apply them anymore.”

Dean grinned widely. “Awesome.”

“I thought you might think so,” she responded happily. “Onto the next, more awkward part of this talk...” She took a deep breath, Dean echoing with an inhalation of his own. “From all the studies I’ve read, alpha and omega scenting can be super intense. I get that. But remember what you’re doing this for—to see what you can learn about each other from non-verbal communication. While there are certain things you can learn from, uh, physical intimacy, I’m not sure a social science study is the time or place—”

“Wait,” Dean interrupted, “are you seriously giving me the ‘keep your hands to yourself’ speech?”

“Can you blame me?” Charlie retorted, apparently having her defense ready and waiting. “I’ve read both of your reports, Dean. You and Castiel have grown...close...”

Dean sighed, taking a beat to re-evaluate. This was a lot of information to process. Later this week he would be able to scent Cas, _glory glory hallelujah_ , but Charlie and her intrusive camera were being the biggest cockblocks of all time. If Cas smelled as good as Dean anticipated he would, staying mindful of his obligations to the study would be nearly impossible...

But hang-on, what had Charlie said about reading _both_ of their reports?

“What’s Cas been writing about me?” he asked boldly, wondering if he took a sudden approach if Charlie would slip-up and spill all her secrets.

No such luck.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” she said patiently. “But hey—when did you give him a nickname? That’s fascinating…I need to add that to my notes…”

The phone call found its natural end a few minutes later, and Dean was totally distracted for the rest of his shift, almost unearthing two perfectly good shrubs in his daze.

He was already crushing on Cas hard-fucking-core just as a person—a person he had developed a rapport with, despite the obvious obstacles.

But during their next session he would meet Castiel the alpha.

He had an inkling that he would like what he saw.

Or, you know, _scented_.

***

Dean had gotten so used to Fridays being “scent blocker” day that, in the morning, he nearly sprayed them on instinct. He caught himself just in time, scrutinizing his uniform in the mirror. When he had first accepted the job, he hadn’t minded the dark navy work trousers or collared shirt, figuring—who did he have on campus to impress? And even though Cas had seen him wear the exact same outfit every Friday and didn’t seem to think it was strange, something about the magnitude of this day made Dean want to go the extra mile. He decided then to pack a change of clothes and hit the gym showers after work. He threw in a bar of soap that he knew emphasized his natural omega scent, figuring if he was gonna primp and preen like a girl he might as well go all the way.

At two minutes till five, he entered building fifty wearing dark jeans and a form-fitting v-neck. It was his go-to date night outfit and he felt zero embarrassment admitting that…to himself at least. Castiel was the most gorgeous man he had ever met, so yeah, going the extra mile could only help, not hurt, his chances. Even though he was technically supposed to be lessening the potential sexual tension, not purposefully increasing it…

Well, ya know what, Charlie may be preventing him from sealing the deal. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t dangle the carrot a bit.

But the minute he grasped the doorknob to the room that had become _their_ room, he was hit with an intense case of nerves. What if this went disastrously wrong? What if Cas smelled like an old muddy shoe, or something bitterly gross, like kale? Would he be able to overlook it and still ask him on a date once the case study was over? Or, even more horrifically, what if Cas hated Dean’s scent? The sharp sting of Dean—which had the low, simmering heat of a chili pepper, a sharp and acidic warmth, according to previous dates—was certainly an acquired taste. Or, uh, smell. Whatever.

Still, Dean couldn’t second guess himself any longer. He turned the knob quickly before he could chicken out, shutting the door behind him. Castiel was sitting on his usual side of the table, dressed in his usual get-up—suit jacket, slacks, trench coat—but that was were the familiarity ended.

‘Cause there was a very unfamiliar scent in the air.

An irresistible one.

Sweet, impossibly sweet. Dean felt like his tongue was coated in sugar. It made him feel lightheaded, the intensity of it, like every molecule of air was dipped in the syrupy sweetness that was Cas. Castiel was on his feet immediately, taking long and determined strides towards him. Dean thought at some point that the alpha would halt and stop in front of him, but no—suddenly his body was colliding with Dean’s, pushing him against the closed door. Castiel was pining him, one hand high and raised on the door, the other hovering near Dean’s waist.

Brazenly unapologetic, feeling crazed and half-drunk, Dean pulled Castiel down by his tie and brought the man’s neck to his nose. He sniffed more fiercely than he could ever remember sniffing and was rewarded with bursts of fresh strawberries wafting in, overtaking his senses. Cas was sweetened like confectioner’s sugar but natural as fruit straight off the vine, and even in his haze, Dean could recognize how good they smelled together. Where Dean was red-hot Castiel was sugar-sweet, and they balanced each other, tangled around one another in a delicious and mouthwatering bouquet.

It took Dean several moments to realize they were holding each other, Dean’s face buried in the crook of Cas’ neck. His arms were wrapped about the alpha’s shoulders, surprisingly lean and tight, and Dean was struck by the knowledge that there was quite a lot left to be revealed underneath all those layers. Castiel was panting right into Dean’s ear, his domineering hand coming down to hold Dean’s hips against his own. Dean’s heart raced as the alpha’s lips ghosted across his neck, hovering suggestively, leaving a dozen near-kisses against Dean’s skin. It was irrational, impossible, but it was somehow enough insinuation and implication for Dean to grow hard in his jeans. He rubbed his front zipper against Cas’ left thigh and both men shifted deeper into the contact. There was an undeniable trace of alpha arousal lacing the air and Castiel pushed against Dean harder, aligning their hips together until Cas’ own erection was an impressive and hard bulge dragging across Dean’s front. They both moaned in abandon and Dean tightened his grip, hardly believing how on-fucking-board he was with rubbing one out in his jeans right now. Castiel was propelling himself against Dean with such fucking intensity that Dean swore to god he heard the alpha growl. He was about two seconds from dropping his load in the most undignified orgasm known to man whenever a knock on the other side of the door jolted them both.

They froze, effectively pausing their eager-dry-humping situation. Dean looked up at Castiel guiltily, as if realizing they had initiated the exact activity that Charlie had requested they not do. He looked down at the digital clock on the table and gasped. It was right at six o’clock.

What the fuck.

Not only had they lost track of time, but they had continued their session for twice the normal time limit. They had never done that before, gotten so lost in the moment that they...

There was another knock, this one sharp and more insistent. Castiel looked like it might physically pain him to separate from Dean, but he did so with a concentrated frown. Dean instantly missed the presence, the heat of the alpha’s body against his, and pulled on his wrist. He wanted more than anything to leave a small, reassuring kiss there, but that might eliminate a boundary they hadn’t technically crossed yet. More importantly, Dean worried that once he started, he might not be able to stop...

So he just squeezed Cas’ wrist instead, maintaining eye contact and hoping his expression revealed how really, truly fucking sorry he was to leave this unfulfilled.

And then he opened the door, closed it briskly behind him, and nearly ran right into Charlie.

The grad student pulled him down the hallway—out of Cas’ hearing range, if Dean had to guess—and opened her mouth. But Dean was not in the mood to analyze whatever the fuck amazing intense thing had just happened between them, and so he grumbled, “Can’t talk about it right now.”

And Charlie, blessed genius that she was, snapped her jaw shut and let him pass.

***

Three hours later, Dean’s heart rate still hadn’t returned to normal. He was at the Roadhouse sitting in a booth across from Sam, barely chewing and swallowing the burger he had ordered. He was behaving so unusually that Ellen had stopped by to make sure his patty had been cooked correctly. He had just nodded numbly and ordered another whiskey, hoping to resolve his sour mood with the only medication that never failed him.

Drinking copious amounts of alcohol.

“You should’ve told me it was ‘scent day,’’ Sam grumbled, spearing his salad forcefully. “I wouldn’t have suggested we go to dinner.”

“S’okay,” Dean mumbled. “I could use a distraction.”

Dean didn’t know what magical combination of words he had offered his brother, but Sam seemed to cheer up considerably.

“Yeah? Well...” Sam took a sip of lemon water and grinned. “Good. ‘Cause I have a surprise for you.”

Before the dread could properly settle in Dean’s stomach, the side door was opening and Gabriel Novak of all people, was strolling inside. “What the...?”

“Okay, before you freak out and leave, just let me explain,” Sam said in a rush. “I stopped in the bakery yesterday, and Gabe and I got to talking. Turns out, according to this girl Meg, Gabe’s brother is totally sprung on this unattainable guy. It sounded so much like your situation that I...I dunno. We thought that if we arranged a blind-date and you two hit it off—”

Dean was already standing, shoulders shaking from anger before Sam could finish his sentence. The thought of being around another man, another alpha, was making Dean feel sick. “I told you I didn’t want this,” Dean hissed, unable to keep the irritability from accentuating every word. “What the fuck, Sammy?”

“Dean, I—”

A hand clasped Dean’s shoulder and he nearly jumped, startled. His head whipped around, eyes blazing and ready to snap at whatever handsy alpha was daring to mess with him tonight. But when he looked down it was just Gabriel, who had an abnormal, apologetic frown on his face.

“Welp, I got the hermit outta his cage. That was a win. But the moment I said the word ‘blind-date’ he nearly sucker-punched me,” Gabriel sighed. He pointed out the glass door frame to a man sitting on a bench, his back to the door. “He refuses to come inside.”

“Good,” Dean snapped, taking a final sip of his whiskey. “Didn’t wanna meet him anyways.”

He knew he was being rude to Gabe, but fuck it, he had told them both no and they had both proceeded as if they knew better than Dean when it came to his own goddamn love life. He was fuming angry and fought the urge to leave, but knew he couldn’t leave Sammy stranded without a ride home.

“Gonna get some air,” he muttered to his brother, crossing his arms and heading for the exit. He didn’t love the idea of passing Gabe’s rich, fratty, and apparently not-on-the-market brother, on his way out…but there was only one entrance and exit, and the guy didn’t know what Dean looked like anyways. He could avoid him easily enough.

He opened the door and was hit with a slight chilliness, wishing belatedly that he hadn’t left his jacket folded in the booth. He walked to the edge of the concrete sidewalk, pointedly not looking at the man on the bench. He took a deep and steadying breath, hoping to calm himself down, but...

Strawberries.

There was the sweet, undeniable scent of strawberries.

Dean turned abruptly and there he was, sitting in his wrinkled trench coat and staring at Dean with wide, frantic eyes.

Castiel. Castiel _Novak_. Gabriel’s brother, Sam’s professor, Dean’s...

Dean’s world. It came to a screeching halt.

Cas stood up automatically, as if they were two magnets inexplicably drawn, and in one fluid motion Dean closed the distance between them, cupped his hands around Castiel’s jaw, and kissed him. The kiss was frantic and rushed and Cas was startled by it, breathless against Dean’s mouth. He pulled away slightly and Dean had a momentary panic, wondering if he had just made the biggest mistake of his life, but then—Castiel leaned forward and kissed him properly, reaching around Dean to grasp his back, his hips, and their lips slotted together, gliding between the other easy as machinery. The addictive savor of sweetness was heavy on his tongue, bursting behind Dean’s eyelids with an overwhelming intensity. It reminded him of the candied strawberries Ellen would sometimes pair with shortcake—freshly cut berries, perfectly in-season, sprinkled with copious amounts of sugar and left for hours…until finally, an enticing syrup was drizzled, by the spoonful, over pound cake.

That was how Castiel tasted. And Dean couldn’t get enough.

He slipped his tongue into the warm, hot heat of Castiel’s mouth and they both moaned at the sensation, the awe-inducing feel of it. Cas sucked mercilessly before massaging the tongue with his own, and they kissed and kissed and kissed. If Dean had felt giddy, dizzy, crazed just from scenting Castiel earlier, actually kissing him made him feel absolutely, positively, done for. When it came to Castiel, he would never, ever tire of this.

Castiel pulled away for air but kept their foreheads touching, his hands wandering the curve of Dean’s lower back. And then he spoke just one word, the first and only word Dean had ever heard him say.

“Mate,” he whispered, and his voice was just as cavernously deep and beguiling as Dean had imagined. He trembled—not only at the sound of it, but at the significance behind the word.

“Mate,” Dean repeated, his voice rough and shaking with emotion. Before he could lunge forward for another kiss, he heard someone clear their throat, or throats, or—wait, there were multiple someones?

Who was watching them?

He forced his eyes to leave Cas’ gaze, and there they were, both of their brothers. Sam looked gawky and awkward at the scene unfolding before him, so much so that it nearly made Dean chuckle. Dean was making out— rather obscenely—with Sammy’s lit professor, so he supposed the discomfort was warranted. On the opposite end of the spectrum, though, Gabriel looked terrifyingly filled with glee.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, pointing between the two of them, “you’re the mystery omega? The one from the case study?”

“Wait,” Sam said, before Dean could answer, “then that means....” His eyes were wide with realization. “We’ve gotta go, Dean. Before you ruin the study even more.”

Dean shook his head vehemently—screw the stupid study. He was pretty fucking sure that he had just discovered Cas was his capital-M mate, and if that didn’t justify breaching the contract, he didn’t know what did. But Castiel’s hands slipped around his face, locking his gaze, and he nodded solemnly. Dean knew then that they wouldn’t, they couldn’t, leave Charlie hanging. They would come clean about what had transpired here tonight, and if she was still interested in having them finish out their final four weeks, then they would do it.

Or maybe Castiel could find the strength to do it. Dean was pretty damn sure that continuing with this ridiculous experiment after everything he had just learned might physically kill him.

But there was more to think about, more complications for why Dean should accept the space Castiel was offering. Because Castiel was a Novak—a flushed-with-cash, spearhead-a-fraternity, likely-the-future-president-of-a-multi-million-dollar-business, Novak.

And there was absolutely no way that Dean was good enough to date him, let alone mate him.

He stepped away from Castiel, despite every instinct in body screaming at him to stay, to touch, to hold. He headed in the direction of the Impala without a second glance, Sam trailing wordlessly behind him.

 


	4. August

Charlie crossed her arms, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“So, just to summarize,” she said, taking a long sip from her coffee mug, “you and Dean interacted outside of the study, though totally by accident. You kissed outside a bar, and now...”

Sitting in a wooden desk in the corner of her office, Castiel cleared his throat and politely repeated himself. “Now we’re...I’m not sure. Possibly mates. Or I think we are, at least.” He looked down at his hands, fighting the urge to blush. “We haven’t exactly had the opportunity to discuss it. Obviously.”

It was Monday morning and they were sitting in Charlie’s cramped office space. It had been a long weekend, tortuous even, waiting for the appropriate office hours to arrive in order for him to come clean to Charlie. He was eager to know if they would be allowed to continue on with the study, and the various possibilities of how this all might end was making him tense with anxiety.

Castiel was unfailingly conflicted about the whole thing. On one hand, he very much wanted to do the responsible thing: complete his obligation to Charlie, finish out the next four weeks, and receive his stipend so he could buy books for next semester. But a stronger and much more insistent part of Castiel secretly hoped Charlie would dismiss them from the study altogether, allowing him and Dean to finally speak, to hold and touch in private, to kiss…and maybe even…

Friday had been much more than he could have ever hoped for, scenting Dean, then kissing him without any blockers to inhibit them. The outfit Dean had been wearing—tight jeans, a dark, v-neck shirt—made it clear that the omega’s daily work uniform had left _a lot_ to the imagination. But above all there was the fiery zest of Dean’s scent, like a bright and muted jalapeño zinging on his taste buds... Castiel had always had a particular liking for spicy aromas. Perhaps this was why. Perhaps every part of his biology had been readying him for his future, his omega. Dean. Dean Winchester, he now knew, thanks to the enrollment of his brother in Castiel’s American lit class.

“Will...” Castiel clasped his hands tightly. “Will we be allowed to continue the study?”

The urge to reach out to Dean over the weekend, to look him up online and go to his house and claim his omega, had been unhinging Castiel slowly over the past two days.

Charlie chewed pointedly on her pen cap for a moment. While she deliberated, Castiel allowed his eyes to wander around the tiny office. It was messy with books and notepads, not to mention Charlie’s seventeen-inch laptop displayed on her desk. There were Star Wars pop figures on a shelf and a Moondoor poster hung on the nearby door. Castiel very much enjoyed Charlie’s company, finding her spunky and engaging. He imagined himself introducing his new geeky, well-intentioned friend to the other important people in his life…like Meg and Gabriel. The visual made him almost chuckle. His brother and best friend could be a tough crowd to please, but something told him Charlie could win just about anyone over.

“I think so,” Charlie said carefully. “Unfortunately for me, if you two _are_ mates, this could disrupt some of the results. True mates would learn things about each other automatically, ya know? But unmated pairs would probably have more difficulty garnering meaning in the non-verbal communicative space...” She mulled the variants over in her head, then shrugged. “Either way, it’ll make for an interesting thesis defense, which is really all that matters. So, yeah. Let’s continue.”

Castiel tried to look relieved at the update, but there was a sudden and sharp ache in his heart at the thought of four more weeks. Four more weeks without speaking to Dean. Four more weeks of honest, unbearable agony. A good amount of pain was painted transparently on his face, Castiel knew, but he couldn’t find the resolve to properly mask it.

Charlie sighed, reaching into her bottom drawer. She brought back of a fifth of whiskey, a cheap brand Castiel was used to seeing at his fraternity parties. She turned sideways, retrieving two chipped mugs hanging on a hook. Castiel watched her with piqued interest as she poured herself a shot’s worth, then positioned the bottle over the other mug, looking at Castiel expectantly. He shook his head.

“I have to teach later,” he reasoned, though he was incredibly tempted by the offer. Very few alphas found their true mate and then were forced to more or less stay away from them for a month. The phrase _look, but don’t touch_ came suddenly to his mind. Castiel frowned, not sure if he would have the strength.

“Same here,” she said breezily. “But I intend for today’s class discussion to be _especially_ entertaining. So...whaddya say? Join me?”

Castiel smiled then, a companionable sort of gesture, and finally nodded towards his cup. She poured him a double shot and they clinked their mugs together, swallowing the whiskey down. It burned in Castiel’s stomach and he leaned into his creaky wooden chair, resisting the urge to close his eyes and sleep away the next four weeks.

“You doing okay?” Charlie’s voice was laced now with noticeable concern. Castiel only nodded stiffly, not trusting himself to say more. “I know it’ll be hard, but I need you and Dean to keep the rules of the study in mind. No talking, no outside contact. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try,” he muttered, embarrassed to realize that his voice was shaking. “I just never thought...I mean, finding Dean and then not being able to...be with him...”

Charlie nodded solemnly. “It’s your decision, okay? And Dean’s. I would never purposefully cause you pain, even in the noble name of social science.”

“But your project, your thesis defense—” Castiel swallowed down a dry lump in his throat. “If we quit now, it’ll postpone everything for you, won’t it? Maybe even your graduation?”

“Maybe.” She gave him a tight, rueful smile. “But I’m a cultural anthropologist, Cas. I have to be empathetic towards the people I study. If not, I can’t do my job.”

Castiel nodded in understanding, resolute and determined to continue with the project for Charlie’s sake. Then he tilted his head, a question occurring to him. “When did you start calling me ‘Cas’?”

Charlie bouncily crossed her legs and grinned at him. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably around the same time that _Dean_ did.”

In spite of his circumstances Castiel beamed at this scrap of information, imagining his nickname tumbling from Dean’s lips in baritone whisper that was already featured in many of his dreams. A voice filled with intimacy, with longing. _Cas..._

***

For the rest of the week, Friday loomed ahead like a ticking bomb Castiel couldn’t neutralize. He was nervously excited to see Dean again, yet hopelessly frustrated about their situation. He usually had a safe haven from campus by grading and reading at the nearby bakery where Gabriel worked. But once his brother informed him that Dean and Sam were actually regulars, too, his only choice was to gape at Gabe irritably and order his coffee to-go. Everywhere he went, particularly on-campus, he daydreamed about running into Dean. At even the smallest whiff of fragrant spices his attention perked up considerably, searching wildly for his omega. _His omega. His._

Castiel had never considered himself a territorial man, not even when it came to romantic partners. But knowing Dean was in the same city as him, on the same campus, with an endless parade of strangers who could see him and scent him and touch him…while he remained officially unmated…it was enough to make Castiel perpetually on-edge. He knew he was experiencing some withdrawals and worried that Dean’s discomfort might be tenfold.

On Friday, he had to force himself to arrive at building fifty only fifteen minutes early. After dropping his belongings into his chair carelessly, he stood around the table and paced.

Ten minutes later, when the doorknob rustled, Castiel felt his heart rattle in his chest. The slow, peppery burn of Dean’s scent filled his senses and he took a large step forward, arms instinctively open…before his body became stony with tension. Dean was wearing his usual uniform, his pants and shirts stained with dirt and sweat, and on his face...

On his face was a black eye.

Castiel was practically running before the movement could properly catch up to him, before he could think rationally about approaching an omega who had clearly, and very recently, been hurt. But his protective instincts took over and he ran a light thumb across the dark and purple bruise around Dean’s bruised and swollen eye, unable to keep the flood of truly livid alpha pheromones from filling the air between them. To Castiel’s absolute dread, his examination of Dean’s newfound injuries didn’t last long. The omega pulled away from Castiel’s touch and his scent was burnt, scorched—fuming. He walked past the alpha without a glance in apology or explanation, and slumped, wincing, in his chair. He didn’t move to Castiel’s side of the table, as he had been doing for weeks now. He simply stared expressionless down at the table, crossing his arms, as the unmistakable scent of misery pervaded the shared space between them.

It was, without a doubt, the worst thirty minutes of Castiel’s life.

***

The gritty texture of chalk coated Castiel’s fingers, and he clapped his hands together, turning from the chalkboard and looking down at his students.

“Your group project presentation will be due in two weeks’ time, just before your final portfolios,” he announced. “Any questions?”

He scanned the room, noticing that Jessica and Sam were getting along quite well thanks to his small involvement in pairing them together. Despite his happiness for the fledgling freshman romance, Castiel had been avoiding Sam’s eye contact quite emphatically for the entire class period. It had been exactly five days since his truly god-awful session with Dean, and the last thing he needed was to make the situation any more complicated by complaining to Sam.

“No questions? Well then...go enjoy your Wednesday afternoon doing whatever it is eighteen-year-olds are doing at the moment.” He smiled at them, hoping it seemed warm and reassuring, but knowing it severely missed the mark. For the past few days he had felt despondent and isolated, barely sleeping or eating, floating through his classes with little to no effort. His students deserved better, Castiel knew, but it was as if his spirit had forsaken his body. Temporarily, he hoped. The tense uncertainty surrounding him and Dean had the alpha feeling an array of emotions he hoped to never experience again.

Dean, possibly the stubbornest man to ever exist, had never explained where the black eye had come from. Not that Castiel expected a full conversation to occur, considering the parameters of the case study. But he still longed for some assurance that Dean was all right, that he wasn’t still in danger, that he shared Castiel’s feelings and desire for closeness. Two Fridays ago outside the Roadhouse, Castiel had been sure of Dean’s feelings, had felt the deep and desperate adoration of his kiss. The only word they had spoken out loud was “mate,” and for Castiel, it had been a revelation, an enlightened confession. He had assumed Dean echoing the word had been his confirmation, his agreement of their newfound status. But now it seemed the exact opposite could, in fact, be true. Perhaps Dean had been processing the information and rejecting it…rejecting Castiel.

He stood at his podium now, staring blankly at the papers shuffled in front of him. He watched the classroom empty out, and with trepidation, realized the only remaining student was Sam Winchester. He was hanging hesitantly near Castiel’s desk, backpack posed high on his shoulder.

“Sam,” he said formally, gathering his papers and heading towards him. “Do you have questions about the group project?”

“No yet, Professor. It’s going great so far. Jess is great and _The Great Gatsby_ is great, so I’m, uh...”

“Great?” Castiel offered weakly, forcing a thin smile on his face. “I’m glad to hear it. You’re doing very well in class.”

“Awesome, thanks, but—” Sam chewed his lip, as if considering something, then seemed to decide to plow forward. “Dean isn’t. Doing great, I mean.”

Castiel stiffened at the mention of Sam’s brother, trying not to show his eagerness at hearing more about the mysterious, enigmatic man that was Dean Winchester. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said gently, hoping his tone would encourage Sam to continue. He wondered, rather dubiously, if they had just discovered a loophole in Charlie’s rules. He couldn’t speak to Dean, that much was clear. But could he speak _about Dean_ to Sam?

“And...no offense, Professor Novak, but you don’t seem so great yourself.” Sam slid his hands into his pockets cautiously, as if Castiel might turn him away at any moment. Rather than refute the statement, Castiel figured honesty was his better option.

“He came to last Friday’s session with a black eye,” Castiel said, by way of explanation. “He was very…distant. Angry.”

Sam nodded sympathetically, and Castiel wondered if he had been experiencing the same standoffish treatment. “He’s been drinking a lot more at the Roadhouse since...you two...y’know.” Sam’s expression was awkwardly pained and so Castiel nodded, not requiring any further clarification. “The other night some alpha knotheads were making a pass at him, stuff he usually just shrugs off. But he’s been upset lately, and anyways, he ended up breaking _two_ noses.” Despite his obvious concern, Sam seemed almost impressed with Dean’s physical prowess. “They just bruised him up a bit, that’s all. But I’m worried for him.”

“I’m worried too,” Castiel echoed, figuring it wouldn’t do either of them good to beat around the bush. “But he’s pushing me away, and I don’t understand why…”

Sam shifted uncomfortably between his feet, hiking his backpack up higher on his hip. “I know this whole thing is really intense for him, but—” He looked down at his shoes and sighed, looking back up to meet Castiel’s eyes. “Honestly, I think it has to do with your last name. Your family.”

Castiel shut the folder in front of him, eyes widening in surprise. “My family?”

“You and Gabriel are Novaks, right? Like, _the_ Novaks?” Sam’s voice was keen and hopeful, as if Castiel could clear up the whole misunderstanding by answering— _me? An incredibly wealth, pretentious Novak? Impossible..._

“I’m afraid so,” he answered instead, and he meant every word of it. He hated his legacy, the deep pockets of his family money and their influence on Stanford. “Gabe and I are estranged from them. We came to Stanford because it was the school we wanted to go to, not to uphold some ostentatious family legacy. I don’t accept anything from my family, and that includes money.” He inhaled steadily, not meaning to speak so freely with one of his students, but knowing this rare predicament called for total transparency. “What exactly does Dean have against my family?”

“It’s not just _your_ family. It’s more like—everyone.” Sam sighed and leaned against the nearest individual desk, his backpack dropping with a thud. “We moved here last year from a little town called Lawrence, Kansas. The kind of place where everyone was working class, y’know, and Dean knew everybody since birth. He didn’t even graduate, not officially. He earned his GED and then started working full-time, to start my college fund.” Sam’s voice was strained, heavy with emotion. “He’s never thought much of himself, to be honest. So he feels really uncomfortable around the upper class. Really defensive. We’ve fought for everything we have, so whenever he’s around people who get things handed to them…”

Sam’s voice drifted off quietly, and Castiel closed his lips in a tight pucker. As soon as the words had left Sam’s mouth, Castiel knew it had been the clear and honest truth. He thought about how he must look from the outside—a rich academic, a privileged frat guy. Was that really what Dean thought of him?

“So now that he _thinks_ he knows me,” Castiel said flatly, “he hates me.”

“What? No!” Sam’s voice was coming out in a rush, his movements large and failing. “I don’t think he _can_ hate you, and that’s what tearing him up.” Sam glanced at him earnestly, pleadingly. “And he doesn’t actually know you. Not the real you. If he did, he would see that you’re nothing like your family.”

Castiel hummed to himself and regarded Sam openly, not knowing what else was left to say. How could he convince Dean that he wasn’t just another rich, vacuous Stanford snob? Especially without the use of words?

“Thank you, Sam,” he said, measuring his words carefully. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

 _A lot to worry about_ , he amended regretfully.

***

On Friday Castiel was jittery, charged like an exposed livewire. He tried to credit his edginess on the knowledge that today he would see Dean, today he would try (and possibly fail) to convey how non “well-to-do” he actually was, despite his family name. But all of this hinged on Dean’s willingness to be open, to try and understand, and Castiel hoped desperately to find the omega in a better mood than last week.

All day long he had felt clammy and snappish, disinterested in food, his skin raw and sensitive to the touch. He had half a mind to cancel on Charlie and take a sick day…and the way Dean had acted last week had tempted him to postpone their weekly meeting anyways. But the thought of leaving things unsettled between them for another week was enough to make Castiel power through all his classes, though he looked unwell enough for many of his students (including Sam, observant as he was) to notice. By the time he arrived in building fifty and entered their room, he was nearly five minutes late, which had never happened. Whatever unyielding, defensive mask Dean had been wearing slowly slipped off when the alpha entered. At Castiel’s disheveled appearance, Dean looked at Castiel with worry in his eyes.

Castiel dismissed it with a wave and took his usual seat, wishing Dean would sit next to him again like he used to, but he knew better than to ask. Dean was the type of omega, the type of man, to give only what he wanted to give. The alpha would never try and push his boundaries, at least not without permission...

Castiel’s forehead was steadily gleaning sweat, his hands shaking as he retrieved his bag and emptied it on the table. He was about to stretch the parameters of Charlie’s experiment, he knew, but there had never been explicit instructions forbidding what he was about to do. Besides, he imagined Dean was the “ask forgiveness, not permission” type, and in this instance, Castiel was willing to do the same.

Dean was looking particularly handsome today, though Castiel couldn’t figure out why. He checked him out without a shred of embarrassment, and noted the same high cheekbones and tan skin, same pink and pursued lips, same sloping neck that begged for Castiel’s lips and tongue and teeth—

Castiel shook his head firmly, trying to stop that train of thought. Where in the world had that come from? Incredulously, he was getting hard just from _looking_ at Dean, and it was perhaps the most reprehensible moment of his adult life. He cleared his throat and inhaled deeply, trying to catch more fresh air than Dean’s scent, then slid the first exhibit of his “redemption attempt” towards Dean on the table.

A dictionary.

A rather old one.

It was leather-bound and navy blue, thick with crinkled pages, and Dean eyed it suspiciously, as if it might leap up and bite him. Castiel rolled his eyes and stretched his hands across the table, opening the front flap and revealing the inscription. In black, cursive marker it read _Castiel Novak, highest grade point average in third grade English and Composition._ Down below, an eight-year-old Castiel had drawn a picture of himself at his desk, glasses thick and wide, holding a book and smiling. It was just a silly stick figure rendition, but Dean seemed to marvel at it, giving Castiel an outrageous thumbs-up. Castiel wiped the back of his neck nervously and returned the gesture with a small smile. So far so good.

Next, he showed Dean his high school yearbook page, where he had worn a dark gray tux and quoted the poet Keats as his senior quote. Bordering the same page, there was a sampling of questions that the yearbook staff had asked the senior class, and that was where Castiel was printed as saying, “I’m going to be a literature professor…no matter what.” Dean raised his eyes at the phrasing, and for good reason—that hadn’t earned him any brownie points at home, though Dean didn’t know that yet—while Castiel just nodded in understanding. Afterwards, he pulled out the big guns: a local newspaper article from last year where the headline read MICHAEL AND LUCIFER NOVAK, JOINT HEIRS OF NOVAK INDUSTRIES written in bold, black letters. Dean took his time absorbing that bit of news, reading the article thoroughly before looking at Castiel with emotion gleaming in his eyes… Respect? Understanding?

And finally—appeared an old piggy bank that Castiel had dug up from the fraternity attic. It was worn, paint chipping, and Castiel had put one single penny into the slot for dramatic effect. Dean eyed it with amusement, and Castiel prodded him with a gentle head tilt to pick it up. Bemused, Dean did so, the single coin reverberating off the porcelain container with a loud chorus of rings. _I’m completely broke,_ Castiel mouthed without a sound. Dean chuckled then, a deep and honest laugh, and replied, _me too._ Some of the tension Castiel had been holding on his shoulders for over a week finally dissipated.

Dimly, Castiel wondered if their miscommunication would have been solved more easily with words…but something told him that wouldn’t be the case. Being with Dean might always be wrought with ups and downs, but Castiel somehow knew that every difficulty would be worth it as long as they were together.

Dean stretched his hands forward on the table and found Castiel’s, entwining their fingers together as if the action was totally natural. The alpha nearly sighed at the contact, feeling relieved to have things settled between them…yet, he felt strangely twitchy the moment their hands collided. He frowned, realizing the blood in his veins was racing, his heart pounding in his ears. He felt out of control, like he might burst through his own body. Dean’s face went slack with apprehension, and he reached a hand towards Castiel’s chin, waiting for the alpha’s blue eyes to focus on his face before relaying, in their same soundless way, _I’m sorry._ But Castiel pulled away—he didn’t have any other choice. Dean didn’t get it, didn’t understand. Castiel wasn’t angry with him, not even for how he acted last week. If anything it was the opposite.

Castiel was angry with himself.

Angry, because…

He had just begun his rut.

He checked the clock on the table, palms and neck perspiring, feeling completely out of sorts. He hadn’t experienced an unscheduled rut since...puberty. He knew the progression of his ruts like clockwork, and he wasn’t due another one for months. Only life altering circumstances could alter his body’s cycle like this, circumstances like…

He licked his lips and looked at Dean. Every cell in his being was begging him to dive across the table, to capture Dean with his lips and hips and teeth, to take him apart inch by inch and knot him until they both writhed and screamed and came—

Instead he ran towards the door, swinging it open so urgently he wondered if he ripped it off the hinges. In his haze he left all his belongings behind, but he would come back for them eventually, deciding that he would wait for Dean to go a far and safe distance before retrieving them. He ran one hallway over and into the men’s room, taking residency in the handicapped stall.

It was early evening on a Friday, as usual, and everyone else was rightfully at home already…which was the only reason Castiel felt somewhat comfortable enough to tear his trench coat and suit jacket off his shaking shoulders, loosen his tie until it was slack and swinging from his neck, unbutton his slacks, and blissfully take his hardened, leaking cock in hand.

He was only able to give himself a few desperate strokes before the sound of the bathroom door opening jostled him, and then…

The scent of Dean.

The scent of Dean nearby. In the room, in fact. It filled up the air between them and made Castiel ravenous. He growled and tensed, knowing his control was tenuous at best around most unmated omegas during his ruts…but around Dean. _Dean._ He would be completely unpredictable.

He heard footsteps heading towards his stall and he panicked, knowing if he saw Dean, if he had his body within touching distance, it would be nearly impossible to resist his more desperate urges…urges which were practically shrieking _take your omega take him take him take him._ He hastily locked the door, sliding the metal latch sideways with a slam. The sound seemed to surprise Dean for a minute, because the footsteps stopped and Castiel breathed deeply, hoping that alone had deterred him. He tried not to fondle his aching cock but it was immensely difficult with Dean’s obvious presence in the room, the piquant waft of pepper scorching the alpha’s taste buds and inciting him to _burn burn burn_ , to _come come come_. He gave in, taking himself in hand again and leaning against the wall, barely standing, the persistent pounding of his agile hand filling up the room with sound. And then there were footsteps again, louder and more determined, and—a rackous slam, a forceful whisk of air, the thud of a kick, the slipping of a lock.

A newly broken door.

Castiel jumped, full of adrenaline, as the ineffective door swung open, insistently ajar.

And there was Dean.

With absolute shock and desire and longing Castiel muttered Dean’s name, more like a whine that would be indecipherable to most, and then Dean’s body was pressed against his. They collided against the tiled bathroom wall and all Castiel could think was—burning. His skin was burning, kindled, ignited. It was as if a forest fire had been released upon them and now Castiel couldn’t be stopped, their lips crashing together, hands scrambling to touch any patch of uncovered skin. Dean kissed him as if he had been resisting for far too long, moaning filthily between Castiel’s parted lips. And then everything was tongue and teeth and there was no stopping this, the match had been lit, the fires of Castiel’s yearning for Dean flaming white hot and humid. The wet smack of their lips resonated in the empty room and it sounded so obscene that any form of nobility or nicety fell from Castiel’s consciousness and he took himself roughly in hand, stroking himself in a wild fashion with one hand and unbuttoning the front of Dean’s jeans with the other. The omega whimpered and rutted against Castiel’s fumbling hand with such enthusiasm, that the alpha dropped his own ministrations and focused on Dean’s solely, reaching a hand between the elastic waistband of his boxers and running an eager hand along his shaft.

Dean thrashed against him and Castiel could feel the steeped dampness of Dean’s slick soaking into the cotton. Instinctively he reached his hand around the back and wetted his hand, bringing his dripping fingers towards his mouth and sucking the digits between his lips. Castiel took his fingers in as far as he could go, savoring the burst of spice, the heat warming his cheeks and making him flush. He maintained eye contact before pulling the fingers out with a suctioned pop. Dean watched with widely hooded eyes, transfixed on Castiel’s mouth as if he had never seen anything more arousing in his entire life.

“Cas…”

His voice was husky and trembling but something in the back of Castiel’s mind told him this was wrong—he wasn’t supposed to be hearing Dean’s voice. Why was that again? A quick flutter of self-awareness flew into his brain and he nearly gasped. Charlie, the study, the rules they were breaking…

“Cas—”

Castiel put his long pointer finger against Dean’s lips, shushing him quite effectively. Green eyes practically seared into him, a gaze of undeniable lust and longing, and Castiel knew he wouldn’t have the strength to pull away from Dean. Not now. Not with his pants down at his ankles and his cock hard and ready, the tingle of Dean’s scent and slick coated on his tongue...

But he had to do something—convince himself they weren’t breaking Charlie’s rules too monumentally. His blue tie felt heavy on his constricted neck and a thought occurred to him. He loosened the knot, stripped it in one fluid motion from the collar and brought it to Dean’s mouth. He went slowly enough for Dean to resist, to protest, but the omega only seemed emboldened by the idea, moaning lewdly once the fabric was securely knotted against his parted lips. The restraint would prevent Dean from crying out, from speaking, but when the omega wrapped a practiced hand around Castiel’s erection and began a furious series of strokes, Castiel wished that he had a second tie…to gag himself. Jesus Jesus Jesus. He panted and moved forward, sliding Dean’s jeans and boxers down towards his knees, dowsing his hand again with slick and bringing his fist tightly over the flushed curve of Dean’s erection. The sound of Dean’s muffled moans against the tie made Castiel feel entirely crazed with lust, and he nudged Dean’s own hand away, wrapping them both around his strong, slender fingers. The veins in his hand and exposed forearm were strained as he stroked them together, rubbing both heads in the sweet, lubricating slide of Dean’s slick. Watching the skin of both shafts move in rhythm with his hand was intoxicating, vulgar, both dicks wet and shiny and glistening pink. The walls echoed with gasps and inhalations and they shook at the joint sensation, Castiel suddenly sure he could come from this feeling alone—

And then Dean, chest heaving and feet unsteady, took a small step backwards. He fidgeted with the loose knot of Castiel’s tie, the article slipping off and cascading to the floor. His lips were red and dry and he licked them unconsciously, and another flame of ache and want incinerated the surface of Castiel’s skin. Still, he gazed at his omega questioningly, wondering if he had disliked the improvised gag. Dean reached towards his pant’s pocket and Castiel feared the worst, knowing rejection from his omega might send him into a deeply profound spiral, but then Dean was typing something furiously on his cellphone. He turned the screen towards Castiel, who had to blink repetitively to read it correctly—his rut was affecting all his senses, it seemed—and in the meantime, Dean was quietly dropping to his knees.

The screen was open to Dean’s notes app and top of the page read:

_There are even better ways to keep me quiet, Cas_

Before Castiel could fully understand, could prepare for the overwhelming implication of such a statement, there was a rounded set of lips puckering taut and tight over the head of his cock. He cried out and gripped Dean’s hair in strained and desperate tugs, scrambling for any physical tether to hold him down. Dean tucked his chin forward around the curve of Castiel’s cock and sucked him down deeper, sordidly and expertly, using one hand to pump the root of his shaft. The sounds were sloppy and slapdash and so totally explicit that Castiel already felt coils of warmth retracting in his balls. Dean made unabashed eye contact as his tongue spun around the slit, looking at the alpha with long and fluttering lashes before sucking him down again and again and again. It was as if he was making love to Castiel’s cock, treating it with such eager fervency and reverence…and surprisingly, it was that thought that made Castiel tighten his grip in Dean’s hair, eyes fixated on the omega’s messy, ruffled strands as he shouted, shook, and—

Castiel’s knot swelled up with such intensity that Dean choked and sputtered, spit dripping from the corners of his mouth, tears forming in the creases of his squinting eyes. He tried to dislodge the cock from gagging him but in the process, Castiel’s come covered Dean’s lips and chin. Once he recovered and breathed again, Dean parted his lips and swiped at the white hot stripes of come adorning his face. He was like a gorgeously obscene portrait of love and lust and want, and Castiel watched the sight through his blurry vision.

He thought once he came he would feel clear-headed again, better, stronger...but the room. The room was spinning, the tiles bright and white, the fluorescents glaring and hurting his eyes. He slumped against the wall with a weak thud, knees shaking, sliding off the floor.

And that was the last thing Castiel remembered before his eyelids were leaden and closed, his body drooping and damp with sweat, and then all he saw was darkness.


	5. September

Dean swayed on his stool, trying hard to stay upright. Ellen eyed him warily, wiping a glass with a bar rag and giving him the side-eye. But he wasn’t drunk, nope, not at all.

Not yet, anyways.

“Me likey,” he mumbled, sloshing the remaining whiskey around the bottom of his glass.

“You know, I oughta thank that boy you’re half-crazed over,” Ellen mused, stacking the freshly dried glass on the shelf behind her. “With how much whiskey you’ve ordered in the past two weeks, you’ve paid my electric bill twice over.”

Dean grumbled a sarcastic _you’re very freaking welcome_ and emptied his glass in one fluid motion, the warmth of the whiskey settling into his stomach. It was true, yeah, he had been spending more and more time seated at the bar of the Roadhouse. Unfortunately for Ellen, it had led to an impromptu bar fight last month when a group of drunk idiots were commenting on his “tight little omega ass.” And then two weeks ago he had gotten so drunk that he had started belting out “Imaginary Lover” …despite the fact that the Roadhouse was not, in fact, a karaoke bar.

He had also escaped here during the three-day period of Cas’ rut, where—after his alpha had literally passed out on the bathroom floor—he had reached into Cas’ pocket and called Gabriel frantically. By the time the overzealous beta had arrived, Dean had managed to clean them both up of any, uh, obvious evidence of their encounter, straightened out their clothes, and gotten Cas to rouse slightly and drink some water. Still, Gabriel had taken one long look at the pair of them and grinned wickedly, the scent of alpha rut and sated omega heavy as a toxic fume in the small restroom.

Every instinct in Dean’s body begged him to stay at Cas’ side, to take care of him, to let himself be knotted over and over again until his body begged for nothing else. But Cas had only shaken his head, the noble, rule-abiding bastard, and slung himself over Gabriel’s shoulder. It felt unnatural, an omega being parted from his alpha during a time of crisis, and Dean loathed the forced separation more than he wanted to cut Sammy’s hair when it reached shoulder-length. At the very least, Dean wouldn’t let Cas leave without a parting kissing, a desperate sort of guttural motion that _begged_ his alpha to reconsider, to let him stay near. Dean was just about to slip some tongue in between Cas’ parted lips—sealing his rather effective argument—when Gabriel cleared his throat comically and nodded towards the open door. Dean pulled away, glaring, and watched his hurting alpha stumble out of the room without him.

It had all happened so fast…the fight, the reconciliation, the rut, the sex. Looking back, Dean wasn’t sure he was okay spreading his legs before he even got to have a fucking conversation with Cas. But hadn’t he initiated things? The whole jumbled up order of things was starting to mess with him.

“So, what’s the story?” Ellen prodded, spreading her hands wide on the countertop. “Sam said you’re smitten over some alpha?”

“Hmph.” Dean made a general sound of disapproval, tilting his glass sideways. “Sounds like Sam’s already filled ya in, whaddya need me for?” he gripped, and Ellen narrowed her eyes. He didn’t wanna snap at Ellen, but fuck it, he couldn’t be held responsible for his bad moods lately. He was frustrated in every sense of the word—situationally, emotionally. Sexually.

“Sorry, don’t mean to be an ass. I’m just…” Dean frowned, sliding his glass forward, a silent request for another. Ellen rolled her eyes but complied, tipping the spout of the whiskey pint and filling Dean’s lowball. “The past few weeks have been hell.”

After the disaster situation in the bathroom stall—though Dean had found the whole thing highly enjoyable before his alpha had literally fainted in his arms—he had been forced to wait a full week before seeing Cas again. A full fucking week. It had been the longest seven days of Dean’s life, knowing that Cas was spending most of their time apart in unbearable agony. Desperate for advice, Dean had even called up the only other mated alpha he knew—his maternal grandfather, Samuel Campbell—who had confirmed Dean’s suspicions. Even though him and Cas weren’t technically mated yet, they had bonded emotionally and physically to the point that from here on out, they would both be miserable during heats and ruts. Unless they were together, of course, or they let the bond naturally fade…

The second opinion was not really an opinion at all, though.

No fucking way.

In the meantime, though, Cas’ rut had made him sick with full-blown, flu-like symptoms...all because he wouldn’t let Dean break the rules of the case study and go to him, kiss him, take his knot. So Dean had spent seven miserable days irritated as hell at his damn martyr of an alpha, wishing he could help.

“You ‘n him fightin’?” Ellen asked in conversationally, as if was a natural assumption, and Dean shook his head.

“Not anymore,” he said, unable to keep the relief out of his voice. When Ellen looked at him expectantly, he continued. “We, uh…had a difference of opinion on something. But we’re good now.” Dean had been filled with righteous anger and anxious concern, somehow in equal measure, as he waited for Cas to arrive at their next session. It had been a full week since their bathroom encounter, and only a few days after Cas’ rut had ended. Dean had been ready to let his alpha know how _not okay it was_ to put his health at risk in the name of goddamn social science. But the moment Castiel crossed through the threshold and his eyes found Dean, those stunning blues full of pleading apology, Dean had crumbled on the spot. They had embraced each other instantly, cosmically, like two desolant planets finding their orbit. They clung to one another for the entirety of their thirty-minute session, sighing in respite because the contact felt right, felt natural, after another week on their own.

“If you’re all good, then…” Ellen waved a hand in his general direction. “Why’re you drinking yourself into oblivion?”

That—now that was the four-million-dollar question. Today was Friday and they had done it, Dean and Cas, they had finished their very last session. Incidentally and without a shred of embarrassment they had spent the whole time making-out, no longer caring if Charlie got an eyeful. This last session seemed more like a formality anyways, since the spunky anthropologist Dean now considered his friend had been strangely cool with the whole, messing-around-in-the-bathroom incident from two weeks ago—waving Dean’s concerns away and explaining it was just more data to add for her case study. Dean had been surprised by her laissez faire attitude, but decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He had gotten to fool around with Cas, Cas had survived his rut (barely, but he had done it), and tomorrow…

Tomorrow was Charlie’s presentation, her thesis defense. Dean and Castiel would both be in attendance and on stage, since that had been part of the contract they signed. Charlie hadn’t given them any warning about what the presentation would be like or what sort of conclusions she had drawn about them, but whatever, Dean was ready for it. As long as he could actually _speak_ to Castiel once the whole academic showboating fest was over, he supposed it was worth an hour or two of public speculation. Or humiliation.

At least, that’s what he was hoping. He still had nerves about tomorrow that had nothing to do with Charlie’s case study.

“Tomorrow is…” Dean cleared his throat and glanced down at his hands, watching the smudged imprint the pads of his fingers left on the glass. Nobody but Sam and Charlie knew about the case study, and though Dean certainly trusted Ellen with this unusual information, it was still too fresh, too raw, to talk about just yet. “Basically, it’s gonna be our first chance to talk. _Really_ talk. And I…well hell. I’m _me_ and he’s _Cas_ , this smart as hell professor with a high class background. What if we talk and—and things aren’t good anymore?”

Ellen snorted and Dean’s head shot up defensively. “Hey, what the hell, I’m bearing my freakin’ soul over here—”

Ellen raised a hand for silence, looking amused. “Relax, Dean. I was only laughin’ ‘cause _Lady Killer_ Dean Winchester is sitting at my bar, the same bar where I’ve seen you pick up a dozen girls in the past year alone, wondering if someone will like him. You have nothing to worry about, kid.”

Dean knew she was trying to reassure him, but he felt his jaw grow tight and rigid. “Cas isn’t some bar fly I can use a pick-up line on and take home,” he explained impatiently. “He’s got hopes and dreams and thoughts and opinions and the vocab of William fucking Shakespeare, if I had to guess. He’s gonna take one look at me and see—”

“He’ll see someone with hopes and dreams and thoughts and opinions and the vocab of...well, Han Solo. Or John Wayne.” She leaned her elbows against the counter, grinning. “But something tells me he’ll like that just fine.”

Dean glanced away, fighting the spread of heat on his cheeks. He wasn’t used to compliments unless they were of the unclothed variety. “Uh, ya know…Ellen…”

Apparently he wasn’t used to thanking people either, and he waited so long to finish that the bar owner just rolled her eyes, reaching for another glass to dry. “Anytime, Dean,” she said, smiling genuinely as another customer hailed her over and ordered a drink.

***

Dean stared into the floor length mirror, frowning.

“No way,” he proclaimed loudly for the hundredth time. Sam and the new girl he was dating, Jess, were sitting on the edge of the couch sharing companionable grins.

“C’mon, Dean. It looks good,” Sam repeated, and yeah, after a twenty minute discussion of his outfit it was becoming clear to Dean that they were talking themselves in circles here. Awesome.

Dean tugged at the starched fabric currently imprisoning his arms, feeling sweaty and unsettled. He looked at Jess, wondering the softest way to delivery this news. “Uh, no offense to your cousin or whoever you borrowed this from, but…”  

Dean was wearing a form-fitting navy suit and white button-up. Around his neck was a similarly-shade navy tie speckled with polka dots, and Jess had slid a white, red, and light blue handkerchief into his front pocket. She had even presented him with a pair of brown dress shoes in Dean’s size, and anyone else would’ve been grateful for the free fancy outfit, but Dean—

“I look like a celebrity douchebag,” he complained, trying to lunge forward in his slacks and realizing he couldn’t—they were too tight.

“You look handsome,” Jess corrected kindly, and Dean groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. As he paced around, deliberating on what to do next, Sam walked towards the door and grabbed his coat. Sensing her boyfriend’s intention to leave, evidently, Jess followed suit and grabbed her sweater.

“Where are y’all going?” Dean demanded, his head swimming with other possible attire options. Maybe he could call one his co-workers to see if they had a spare suit hanging in their closets. Or he could bite the bullet and rent one, though on his meager budget he’d probably end up looking like he was headed to a redneck wedding or a high school prom.

“We’re going to the case study presentation,” Sam said lightly. “I thought we’d ride with you, but if you’re planning to freak out about your outfit for the next hour and make us late, maybe we’ll just call a Lyft.”

The icy glare Dean shot his brother rivaled even Sam’s iconic bitch face. He slid his phone out from his pocket to prove that they still had plenty of time, but...oh shit. Twenty minutes until show time.

“Fine,” he snapped, accepting the fact that his first real conversation with Cas was gonna include them both shifting around uncomfortably in monkey suits. Though Cas would undoubtedly look way less douchey and way more adorable. “But you’re riding shotgun, dude. I ain’t running a teen makeout spot on wheels.”

“Gross, Dean,” Sam complained, the edges of his ears turning pink.

The drive over to Stanford was quick but strained, with Dean thrumming his fingers apprehensively against the wheel. Sam started to say something, mumbling words like _Professor Novak_ and _true mates_ but Dean only nodded noncommittally, thankful that Sam’s beta nose wasn’t sharp enough to pinpoint the waves of restlessness that were crashing around inside the omega. He popped in a Rolling Stones album and turned the volume up louder than was necessary, effectively ending the possibility of conversation. He parked Baby as close as possible to Cubberley Auditorium, but now that the fall semester had resumed at the end of August, all the students were back on-campus. Somewhere along the way Dean had started to refer to them as just that— _students_ , not his standard “trust fund baby” insult that had been on the tip of his tongue all year. Getting to know Cas had made him more self-conscious about always assuming the worst, of thinking someone was one way because of their family or circumstance when in reality, most people were much more complex than their tax bracket might suggest.

It was all very inconvenient, being reasonable or whatever the hell this newfound sense of self-awareness was called. It was one of many small ways that Cas’ influence had already changed him for the better, and they hadn’t even _actually_ talked yet. Jesus.

He slammed his car door and straightened his suit ceremoniously, while Sam and Jess waited respectfully nearby. Finally then began walking towards the auditorium, the couple making polite chit-chat with one another while Dean slid his hands into his pockets, introspective and quiet. He tried to hold onto the confidence boost he’d gotten from Ellen last night, but her words were already fading fast in his memory. He was about to see Cas, and even Charlie said it was best to keep them separated until the presentation, afterwards Dean and Cas would be free. Free to talk, to hold, to touch, with no one to interfere—

Damn, maybe he should’ve asked Sam to crash with a friend in the dorms. ‘Cause if things went the way Dean hoped they would, he’d be straddling Cas’ hips and sinking onto his thick alpha cock in just a few hours’ time…

Sam opened the door to the auditorium, inviting Jess and Dean to file inside first. It wasn’t the swankiest place on campus, which Dean suspected was because it was housed within the School of Education. He wasn’t even _in_ college, but he still knew no administration seemed to put enough resources into education. He wondered if Cas, as a future teacher, had thoughts on that. Then he remembered, with a brand-new case of nerves, that he’d be able to ask him his opinions on politics and religion and life and death in just a few hours.

No pressure or anything.

They walked through the lobby, which was had a few stragglers headed in the same direction as them. They all crossed the threshold of the auditorium soon enough, doorway wide and open, and Dean…well, he tried containing his surprise. While the auditorium certainly wasn’t standing-room only, it was definitely full, with only stray seats of ones and twos remaining. The walls were a stark white with some decorative arch work adorning the sides, the seats blue-cushioned. The stage was a glossy oak and filled with furniture: two podiums with microphones, and in a row, three small tables with a pair of two chairs behind each one. Before he could comprehend what that might mean—why the hell would so many people be up there on stage? Wasn’t it just supposed to be him, Cas, and Charlie?—the redhead in question was yanking insistently on Dean’s sleeve.

“Dude,” she barked, dragging him towards the backstage door. Dean craned his head to nod a brief goodbye to his brother, who gave him an eager thumbs-up. “What part of ‘get here ten minutes early’ was a foreign language to you? Did I say it in Spanish? French? I know you’re not a Trekkie, but maybe I said in in Klingon by mistake—”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat, trying to sound more genuine. He really was sorry—he had put Charlie through more than her fair share of grief over the past few months. “I, uh, had a wardrobe malfunction.”

She raked her eyes over him briefly as they climbed the back, concrete steps. “You look good, familiar in a way…” She gasped audibly, her annoyance about his lateness evaporating from her expression. “Huh. kinda look like a hot dad from _Riverdale_.”

“Thanks, Cheryl Blossom,” he said dryly.

“Hey, don’t knock my girl Cher. Redhead queer gals gotta stick together.” She stuck her tongue out and he nudged her on the elbow playfully. She led him to the side of the stage and towards a large, black curtain where two strangers were waiting.

“Dean, meet Donna—” Charlie tilted her head towards a blonde, cheerful-looking woman slightly older than Dean.

“Hiya!” she called, smiling earnestly.

“And this is Fergus—”

The man was short and somewhat stocky, with dark hair and mischievous expression. “Name’s Crowley.” He reached forward and shook Dean’s hand, gripping him carelessly. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Right back ‘atcha,” Dean muttered doubtfully. He spun around as subtly as he could, searching for the only face he cared to see today. “Hey—where’s Cas?”

“On the other side of stage,” Charlie answered, and almost as an afterthought to herself, added, “with the other alphas.”

“The other alphas?” Dean repeated. But Charlie was already walking past him, retrieving a clipboard from a nearby table and flipping through her notes. Dean turned back to Donna and Crowley, who...yes, he could smell it now. He had been distracted before, hoping to catch a glimpse of Cas. But now he caught the scent—loud and clear.

Both of these strangers were also omegas.

Which was rare, very rare. Much too rare to be a coincidence.

“What’s going on?” he asked firmly, looking at the pair of them expectantly.

“Dunno. No flyin’ fudge, honestly,” Donna admitted with a shrug. “All I can figure is, if we were kept in the dark about something, Charlie had a darn good reason.”

“Wait—you two were—” Dean gripped the sides of his temple, fighting a forthcoming headache. “You were both in Charlie’s case study too?”

“Honestly? This just _now_ occurred to you?” Crowley sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes with flourish. “Am I the only game piece on the board who doesn’t underestimate cheeky little orphan Annie over there?”

Mouth agape, Dean turned towards Charlie, his new favorite friend…who was keeping ominously busy. Huh.

“Charlie,” he growled, hoping his voice would carry. Her head snapped up quickly but her eyes returned to her papers. She looked strangely...guilty. Dean walked towards her in long strides and spoke in a whisper, not wanting Cheery Minnesota Blondie and Annoying English Accent over there to overhear.

“What the hell are you not telling me?” he demanded, crossing his arms and leaning closer.

“Listen...it’s not as bad as you may think.” She glanced up and offered him a weak smile. “Did I tell you the whole truth and the experiment? No. Are you and Cas gonna be angry with me? I…well…” She gulped, staring down at her notes again. “That’s to be determined.”

“Charlie—”

“Just trust me, ‘kay? And keep an open mind.” She patted him impishly with her clipboard and walked across the stage before Dean could argue any further. He had half a mind to follow her, but when she threw open the adjacent curtain Dean’s focus shifted drastically. There were two alpha women across the way—one with short, dark brown hair, jeans and a nice sweater; another with vibrant red curls, tall frame dressed head-to-toe in dark leather. Cas was standing beside the two women, looking sheepishly out of place, wearing…

A navy blue suit.

A navy blue suit that looked almost identical to Dean’s.

They looked at each other across the long stretch of stage and chuckled, arms waving between the two incredulously. There were very few differences between them, just minor details, like Dean’s suit jacket only had two buttons while Castiel’s had three. Dean could see that Cas’ tie was such a rich shade of dark blue it almost looked indigo, patterned with small circles. Otherwise their outfits were coordinating almost _too well_ and it was honestly really fucking eerie.

And, Dean admitted against his better judgment, really fucking cute.

“I’m just so happy for you fellas,” Donna said, voice pleasant and sweet.

“Huh?” Dean turned to her, only taking his eyes off Cas for the briefest moment. He thought he would feel more nervous once he saw Cas, but to his stunned enjoyment, the opposite had actually occurred. He felt calm, emboldened.

“You and the alpha—the handsome guy over there?” Donna sounded less certain the more she spoke. “Just from your scent I assumed you two are…y’know…”

“What this lovely little stalk of Minnesotan sweet corn is trying, and failing miserably, to ask,” Crowley interjected, “is if you and your navy-suited doppelgänger over there are doing the manky panky, enjoying the back passage, fondling each other’s dangly bits?”

“I…we…” Dean stared at him, blinking and sputtering, unconvinced he had heard this guy correctly because _what the everloving fuck_. “How the hell is that any of your business?” He looked at Donna with dismay—she hadn’t meant for things to travel in this direction, obviously.

“Isn’t in the slightest,” Crowley said glibly and with a shrug. “Just thought the details of your sex life might be somewhat less dull than watching paint dry, which is our current activity.”

Dean scowled, nearly growling in irritation, and stared straight ahead without answering. He decided right then and there that—whatever information Charlie had kept from him—she’d spent four months on-and-off in the company of Crowley. That had been punishment enough.

Before Dean could think of a proper comeback, a thin, regal-looking redhead went on stage and introduced herself as Dr. Anna Milton, PhD, Head of the Anthropology Department. The room quieted, both onstage and off, as she introduced two candidates seeking to defend their doctoral theses.

Two people. Two.

The first was Charlie, who sauntered on stage—though Dean could tell she was flushed and sweaty with nerves. The second was some guy named Ash, who was sporting a long and messy mullet and a wrinkled button-up shirt. He looked like the type of guy who’d feel much more comfortable slamming PBRs at the Roadhouse, an activity Dean certainly approved of, but apparently he was getting his PhD in Genetics and Genomics instead.

Well hot damn.

There was applause as the two presenters took their places. New life outlook aside, if Dean had to hear the word “PhD” one more time today, he might actually throttle someone.

“Thanks a million, Dr. Milton, not only for your guidance but for believing in this weird little project.” Charlie was positioned at one of the podiums now with Ash at the other, as the department head took her swift exit off-stage. “At this time I’d like to ask for the case study participants to join us. You’ll see name cards on each table.”

Donna was closest to the edge of the stage and led the way, Dean and Crowley following distantly behind. There was too much for Dean to process at once—the brightness of the stage lights, the feeling of hundreds of eyes suddenly on him, the irritation he felt at not knowing what the hell was going on. The only thing that kept him from wanting to bolt was the knowledge that he could hopefully share a table with Castiel, could hopefully sneak his hand on the alpha’s knee and find some reassurance and familiarity there.

He felt innately relieved when he saw he had been right—him and Cas had been assigned the far right table, and the alpha was already sitting and waiting for him patiently. Dean pulled his chair out and Castiel stood up automatically, eyes locked and unrelenting, waiting for him to sit. The omega felt the insides of his stomach begin to flutter. Under any other circumstance he would’ve made a joke out of the gesture, would’ve said _this isn’t a Victorian romance, Cas, you don’t have to stand every time I pull out my chair._ But the rules on talking versus not talking during the presentation was still a little hazy to Dean, and besides, he didn’t want the first full sentence he said to Cas to be a sarcastic jab. Though he supposed if the alpha intended to stick around, he oughta get used to it. A smile tugged on the corners of Dean’s lips at the thought.

Once they finally took their seats Cas’ hand found his immediately, fingers entwining, and their eyes performed their usual silent conversation. The alpha smelled amazingly enticing this close up, like a wet and juicy strawberry ripe off the vine and Dean just wanted to _taste_ . He fought the urge to bury his head in his alpha’s neck, to scent him openly, publicly. Castiel’s eyes were wide and inquisitive, attempting to read Dean by his expression alone. _You okay?_ he mouthed softly, and Dean squeezed his hand. _Better now,_ he answered, giving a shy smile.

Up until this point Dean had been ignoring the sheer amount of things covering their table, enraptured with his brief (if annoyingly public) reunion with his alpha. But now he noticed it—the microphone in the middle, the two folders neatly arranged and labeled with each of their names. Weird. Charlie had said they may have to participate in this presentation, but she had claimed it would be minimal. Hmm...just how much information was Charlie keeping to herself these days?

“To begin, Ash and I would both like to say—thanks for being here!” Charlie’s voice was perky and breathless as it traveled through the sound system. Dean leaned forward in his chair, ready for some freaking answers already. “Often thesis defenses are private affairs, and would include just us and the lovely panel of professors in this room. But we thought our findings were so fascinating that we wanted to make it a public event.”

“Red’s right—stay tuned. We might just turn this whole alpha ‘n omega thing right on its head.” Ash sounded and looked more a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie than a scientist or whatever the hell he was, and Dean stifled a chuckle.

“Right, so…” Charlie shuffled her papers, seemingly about to launch into a very thoughtful and concise speech. “About a year ago, I had a very simple idea about what my thesis project should explore. I wanted to learn more about the role of communication between alphas and omegas and how it affected their social interactions. Not a very focused topic, I’ll admit. I was trying to narrow down my subject and discussing all the options with my buddy here, Ash, a brilliant geneticist and doctoral student. At the time, he had already decided on his own project—”

“A biological isolation of the specific DNA alphas and omegas share in order to predict potential patterns in mating habits,” Ash supplied helpfully, and Dean couldn’t keep the astonishment from covering every inch of his face. Obviously Roadie #1 was packing some serious brains underneath that mullet.

“We got to talking and decided to combine our two projects—a blind experiment to uncover the role of nonverbal communication in potential mates. We requested DNA samples from a pool of unmated omegas and alphas, and based on Ash’s research and evaluation, we came up with three corresponding pairs. Biologically, each of these sets of individuals has the potential to be future mates. Though my results indicate that may not always be the case…but more of that later. First, I’ll hand the reins over to my partner to delve deeper into the science of it all.”

Ash, in his wandering drawl of an accent, began with the basics—biological stuff about secondary gender that Dean had learned in grade school. It was widely known that everyone’s genetic makeup had the possibility of containing X or Y chromosomes, but fully-presented alphas and omegas have a rarer chromosome that betas don’t have—the Z-strand. According to a dozen scientific studies Ash quoted that Dean couldn’t make heads or tails of, there were literally hundreds of specific strands possible between the genders of alphas and omegas. The correlation between the Z-strand and successful mating was still incredibly variable, but supposedly, the closer and exact number of a strand could project a higher probability of mating. It dawned on Dean before Ash or Charlie actually confirmed it—this was the only reason he had been paired up with Castiel to begin with.

They shared a Z-chromosome.

As uncomfortable as it made him—the implication that biology could overpower Dean’s control over his life, could attempt to strip him of his free will—he couldn’t refute the evidence. Their experiment was fucking genius. First, Ash got to study if nearly-matching Z-strands could actually predict the likelihood of mating trends in alphas and omegas; second, it created the perfect environment for Charlie to observe each pair, learning how far they could go in their bond with nonverbal communication alone.

It was stunning and smart and infuriating as hell. But they had signed contracts as participants of a case study, a _blind experiment_ he reminded himself, so it was totally allowable to be kept in the dark for four months. Four goddamn months sharing a small space with their genetic soulmate.

“The deeper I delved into the idiographic aspect of the study, however, the more I discovered that the results wouldn’t be cut or dry,” Charlie was saying, and Dean blinked and stared down at his hands, wondering how long he had been zoning out and when Ash’s part of the presentation had ended. But he figured it was understandable in his case, ‘cause holy fuck…he had assumed him and Cas were mates, yeah, but Jesus. They hadn’t even talked about their favorite foods or books or movies. Now they had to delve right into “you’re my genetic soulmate” on their first fucking date?

Dean’s shoulders were tightly raised around his ears, adrenaline pumping, feeling strangely trapped on stage…but then there were warm fingers rubbing soothing circles into his wrist. _Cas_ . Regardless of how they had met, how their bodies apparently wanted them to be together, this was still Cas _._ And that still meant something.

If Dean was being honest with himself, that meant everything.

“As an example of how the results of this study greatly varied, let me begin with Pair Number One,” Charlie said, her tone almost conversational now. She drifted her hand to point to the first table, where Crowley and the standoffish, redhead alpha in leather were sitting. Dean noticed that their chairs were scooted as far away as possible from one another, their outer knees squished against the legs of the table. “Crowley and Abbadon—Abby for short—shared an exact match of Z-chromosome 6.66. Genetically, Ash’s original hypothesis was that all matching pairs would eventually be mated. And while this pair’s nonverbal reaction to each other was certainly intense and immediate, it certainly wasn’t…uh, very favorable.” Charlie cleared her throat nervously, as if either the alpha or omega might contest her assessment. Surprisingly, neither did.

“Pair Number One made many incorrect assumptions regarding each other. Despite being very perceptive and strategic individuals, most of the socioeconomic conjectures they made about each other were totally false. It would be difficult to measure the accuracy of their interpretations personality-wise, but both were highly negative. Particularly once the scent blockers were removed.” Charlie almost looked embarrassed to be airing out the vendetta between the two, but neither seemed to share in Charlie’s apprehension. It was possible that after four months of the case study, Dean was just really fucking good at understanding body language—but he had seen the hatred between those two the moment they sat down. He sorta hated that Crowley dude as well and they had barely talked. None of this shocked him really. “Abby, would you read the highlighted excerpt of your written feedback, including the date? It’s located in the front flap of your folder.”

Abby was projecting some heavy, hostile alpha vibes and it made Dean’s eyes water. He instinctively leaned closer into Cas, hoping the sweet sugar aroma would overpower his senses. With a flourish Abby opened her folder and shot Charlie a sharp look, then laughed without humor and pulled the microphone towards her. “ _May 31, 2019. Session number three._ Crowley is a pompous ass,” she read in a flat voice. “He seems to believe he’s charming and suave, but his facade only makes him look weak. If I had to guess, he’s probably the type of frail, pathetic man who would be useless in a crisis and afraid to get his hands dirty.”

The reaction was immediate, both on and off the stage. Dean and Cas shared a sort of flabbergasted, raised-eyebrow look, while the audience buzzed audibly with the impending drama. Dean had to give it to Charlie—this whole situation was awkward and weird as fuck, but damn if it wasn’t good entertainment.

“No need to flatter me, dear,” Crowley said dryly into the microphone. “By the way, that accent—Canadian? Interesting…I suppose the stereotypes we’ve heard about our neighbors to the north—and their amenable nature—is dreadfully misinformed _._ ”

Abby crossed her arms and chuckled, the sound ringing hollow. “I should’ve known you’d have a pretentious English accent. Wow, could you be any more predictable, Crowley? You’re just another man with an inflated ego and sense of self-importance—”

“And you’re a greedy, pitiless she-demon who not even Satan himself could love,” Crowley said, easy a breathing. “Now that we’re done stating the obvious, perhaps we can continue with Miss Bradbury’s downright riveting presentation?”

Abby’s chest was heaving, her hands wringing the folder together in aggravation. But before she could reply, Charlie thumped her microphone loudly with her pointer finger. “Well, uh, here we are folks. A clear example of how an exact Z-chromosome match could actually be considered a _drawback._ I had intended to share more evidence from the study, but in the interest of…well, everyone involved, we can move onto Pair Number Two.”

To Dean’s relief (and honestly, slight disappointment) the interaction between the second pair was significantly less dramatic. Donna and Jody shared a Z-chromosome of 9.13, and over the past four months, had obviously become fast friends. When their scent blockers were removed the two had just hugged and cried—apparently Donna’s scent reminded Jody of freshly-rising dough, a household staple her late husband had baked every Sunday. The two women certainly seemed different in personality, but were both immensely likable, and when Charlie asked if they intended to maintain their friendship after the study, Donna instantly declared into the mic, “Oh, you betcha.”

Still, Dean struggled to pay attention during the Donna and Jody segment. Halfway through a realization had struck him—sudden and painful as a pinch. So far, neither of the pairs had been unveiled as potential true mates. So where did that leave him and Cas? Despite Ash’s confident assumption about the shared chromosomes, maybe he had been wrong all along and _that_ was the big reveal. Maybe Charlie was about to announce that none of them were mate material, and even though he had been vehemently against being with Cas simply for biological reasons, he couldn’t deny that it made him defensive thinking anyone—even scientific research—might imply they didn’t belong together.

Nothing would keep him from pursuing this thing with Cas. Biology or anthropology, heaven or earth. Fuck it all. They would carve out their own destiny, hand-in-hand.

“Onto our last pair, Dean and Castiel, who share an Z-chromosome 4.1.” Charlie looked at them pleasantly, smiling down at them from her podium. “Just for context, this is why good research practices include sampling the largest possible number of individuals for comparison. If I had just observed Dean and Castiel, I would’ve assumed that all unmated alpha and omega pairs with the shared Z-chromosome are…well. I’ll let them explain.” Dean felt his palm grow clammy, sweaty, but he just gripped Cas’ hand tighter. “Castiel, would you read some of the excerpts I’ve highlighted for you?”

“Of course,” Castiel said quietly, and there it was, the deep baritone that made Dean’s chest grow tight with affection. He had only heard Cas utter one word before and it hadn’t been enough, may never been enough, considering he had ever loved anyone’s voice quite this much. Castiel lightly extricated his hand from Dean’s tight grip and opened his folder, clearing his throat. He began to read.

He read and read and read. Longer than any of the other pairs, Cas read. And Dean gazed at his alpha’s side profile, chin high, skin chiseled white like marble, and the omega physically _shook_ at the sight of it. Because holy fucking shit, the things Cas had written about him. The things he was speaking into a microphone now for the whole goddamn world to hear.

Dean may not survive it.

_May 17 [Session 1]: So far, Dean seems to be a colorful and vivacious man. The eye contact today we made was quite substantial, if not intense and a little…unsettling. But intriguing. I’ll admit that from a first impression alone, I find him quite gorgeous. It’s distracting. His uniform leads me to believe he works in a manual labor position of some sort, and the dirt on his hands implies that he works very hard at this job, whatever it is. I don’t know exactly why, but I like Dean already. Very much._

_June 7 [Session 4]: It’s unnatural to sit in silence with anyone for this long, with this amount of concentration. It’s…unnerving. Uncomfortable. It doesn’t help that Dean’s eyes are the most gorgeous shade of green shrouded in the most penetrating gaze I’ve ever experienced. He has to know what he’s doing to me…he makes me breathless, which is a cliche I certainly never intended to write, let alone experience firsthand, but here I am. I’m developing—no, that’s illogical and impossible. I can’t have feelings for someone I just met and haven’t even spoken with. I just get the sense that there’s something different about him, something that draws me to him inexplicably. I haven’t been able to think about much else to be honest. I daydream about holding his hand, touching his chin, hearing his voice say my name…_

_June 28 [Session 7]: Hemingway. Dean read a Hemingway passage that was…suggestive, and—well. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to kiss him very very badly._

_July 12 [Session 9]: Dean is caregiver. I can tell by the way he holds himself, the way he considers what I need above his own comfort or wishes. I am startled by this. It seems I have grown fiercely independent, even somewhat guarded, as a result of cutting ties with my family. I never allow anyone to take care of me, not even Gabriel or Meg (especially not Gabriel or Meg). But Dean…it seems I would trust Dean enough to be vulnerable in this way, to lay myself bare for him. I wonder what that means._

_July 26 [Session 11]: We scented each other today and I can barely think straight. The bursting spice of him, the zing of pepper. I could taste him on my tongue, feel him on my skin, the air around us making me dizzy and…ravenous. I have never had such a strong reaction to any scent, ever. Without the blockers it is very difficult to control my urges to be with Dean in a…biblical sense. Very difficult._

_August 2 [Session 12]: I’ll be the first to admit that things have gotten out of hand. Last Friday I ran into Dean quite serendipitously—turns out our brothers were trying to set us up, and Dean’s brother is a student in my class. It was a night of extraordinary revelations. We kissed, which was better than any dream I could’ve conjured up. I want to do it again and again again. It was the best kiss of my life. But now Dean is withdrawn, and he came into the session with a black eye and won’t explain why. He seems upset with me, and the prospect of not fixing things has me terrified. I know he’s a very stubborn man with a mind that’s difficult to change. I’m worried I might have lost him before I even really had him._

_August 9 [Session 13]: Let things be okay. Please, please let things be okay._

_August 23 [Session 15]: My rut. My rut hit without warning, which my doctor believes is my proximity to Dean and how our bodies are instinctively attempting to mate. Dean and I did share an intimate moment together in the bathroom, the details of which I’ll leave out unless you require them for scientific reasons. But now I’m finally back home and in the middle of my rut and I can barely think straight. Gabriel is actually typing this email for me…without the company of my omega over the next few days, I fear I am incapacitated. Well, technically he isn’t my omega unless he wants to be, which is a conversation we should certainly have once we’re finally allowed to speak…I don’t mean to come off as possessive, it’s just very hard to maintain civility when I’m in this state. My need for Dean is constant, a deep hunger and yearning that will never be sated. Oh god I need him. I need him. I need…_

_September 6 [Session 16]: Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester. Where to begin?_

_If these are my closing remarks, I suppose I should tell you everything I’ve learned about Dean over the past four months. Dean is very perceptive and kind, while also being sporadically immature and mischievous. He has a wonderful sense of humor. He values his family, specifically his relationship with his brother, over anything else. He has secret geeky tendencies when it comes to film and comic books, which I find quite endearing. He can often be very laid-back and charismatic, but a moment later, pigheaded and impulsive. He is one of the most complex and infuriating men I’ve ever met and it is becoming increasingly clear that my life will never be the same._

_There is a very good chance that I have fallen in love with him._

Distantly, in the farthest corners of his mind, Dean knew there were other people around. Nearly a dozen on stage, a good hundred or two in the audience. But it was all peachy keen as far as he was concerned, ‘cause no one mattered in that moment except for Cas. It would’ve taken literal, physical force to make him look away from the alpha at this point and he realized, with a sort of delayed self-awareness, that his eyes were wet. He was tearing up at the intensity of this whole thing, even fighting a sense of vertigo, and fuck if that wasn’t a little embarrassing. He wasn’t some weak little omega, and he wasn’t afraid of earning himself a dozen more black eyes as long as he got that point across to anybody who thought otherwise. But when the pad of Castiel’s thumb edged to the corner of his eye, wiping a stray tear away, he finally understood. Understood that being with an alpha, _his alpha,_ wasn’t about being taken care of. Instead, they would be partners who took care of each other. The power dynamics weren’t imbalanced in the ways he had subconsciously always feared—because he trusted Cas, and that trust would only grow with time. He leaned into the touch then, no longer feeling self-conscious for the tears, for the show of emotion. Though, if anyone but Cas decided to point out his crying, he was definitely not above kicking someone in the balls. Especially if that assclown Crowley decided to toss his two cents in.

Dean chuckled to himself at the image and Cas legitimately beamed, as if Dean’s laugh was the best thing since sliced freakin’ bread. Really, this whole thing was getting too cute to put on display for the whole anthropology department—and his baby brother. He needed to not have a bunch of eyes on him as he processed everything that was happening between them.

“Uh, hey Charlie?” he said into the microphone. Dean had no idea if he was allowed to interrupt mid-presentation, but hell, nothing ventured nothing gained. “Permission to leave?”

Charlie looked startled for a moment—the pair of them doing a French exit had obviously not been a possible option on her master plan—but she grinned in approval, her academic facade slipping for just a moment. “Go for it.”

Dean literally didn’t have to be told twice. He realized in hindsight he could’ve tried for a smoother exit, but fuck it, their absence would be noticed whether it was quiet or not. The feet of his chair scratched across the hardwood, and the heel of his borrowed dress shoes clicked annoyingly against the polished floor. Still, he was already up on his feet, dragging Cas by the hand before the alpha seemed to know what was happening. He trailed a few steps behind Dean, their joined hands swinging like a jostled bridge, until they stepped a few yards behind a thick curtain.

There was still enough light from the stage for them to regard each other fully, and they faced each other wearing mirrored expressions of joy and excitement and disbelief. He tried to look at Cas as though it was the first time all over again—the prominent eyebrows, the startling blue, the handsome nose, the chin that dimpled on occasion. Dean hands wandered around his alpha’s face as if it was just another way of conducting conversation, as if he could learn everything he needed to know by touch alone. Cas closed his eyes with a thick flutter of lashes and Dean knew that—soon, very very soon—he would spend hours touching every inch of this man’s body.

When his hands dropped to Cas’ waist, slipping a hand beneath his navy suit jacket, the alpha finally opened his eyes again.

“Hello, Dean.” His voice was a low and steady rumble, and Dean felt a shiver of something like electricity run through him.

“Hey, Cas,” he said breathlessly, then chuckled softly. “You have no freaking idea how good it feels to finally say that out loud.”

“I think I might have some idea,” Cas pointed out with a smirk, hands moving to the small of Dean’s curved back.

They were standing close now, barely a breath apart, eyes unwavering from one another. Distantly, thanks to the decent audio equipment, Dean could still hear Charlie’s assessment of the results she had gathered.

“If it’s possible to confirm through genetic and cultural study, I feel confident concluding that Dean and Castiel are true mates,” Charlie said matter-of-factly. “Follow-up with the pair will better confirm this, but all the evidence I’ve collected over the past four months makes an incredibly strong case. To me, this is not just a result of biology, but choice and chance, something not even social science can quantify.”

Wrapped in the dim light of the curtain, Cas’ hand traveled to Dean’s lip. Dean parted for him without hesitation, licking his lips and the edge of Castiel’s thumb. The alpha gasped gently and Dean felt his heartbeat, loud and forceful as a sledgehammer, making his limbs shake with nerves. He had never wanted to kiss anyone as badly as he wanted to kiss Cas.

“Therefore, we have determined that having an exact match of your Z-chromosome does not guarantee successful or lifelong mating. However, despite limited communicative contact, the matching extraneous chromosomes guarantees an intense social reaction may be established—this could be friendship, hatred, or love.”

Lips, lips everywhere…on his nose, his neck, his chin. Cas was scenting him in a wild frenzy, pushing him up against the nearby wall. They were cloaked in darkness now and Dean fidgeted with the buttons of Cas’ blazer, slipping it off his shoulders without any discussion. Cas’ thigh was between Dean’s parted legs and he barely resisted the urge to rut against him, his cock already semi-hard with little to no provocation. Fuck—he was really _this_ gone on Castiel. The realization felt surreal.

“This could revolutionize the way alphas and omegas interact moving forward. For instance, if science allows you to more readily know the exact genetic makeup of your Z-chromosome, you could know ahead of time that the person you’re meeting up with on a dating app could be one of three things—a friend, a lover, or a foe. Either way, our study would suggest a strong reaction depending on environmental factors, such as upbringing, personality, and preference.”

Dean couldn’t take it anymore…the anticipation, the waiting. He pulled Castiel’s face between his hands and pushed them together, a close-mouthed slide of wet and rough lips that made him moan louder than he should. He was overtaken by the scent of them—Cas’ sugary sweetness, his own burning heat. It was deliciously intoxicating, and it occurred to him that together, they tasted like strawberry habanero jelly. His new favorite flavor as of...four months ago.

Of fucking course they did.

“You know,” Cas whispered, pulling away and panting, “at some point we should actually have a conversation.”

“Sure,” Dean said, sucking a deep mark on a spot of Cas’ neck that would be hidden by his starch collar. “Whatever, whenever.”

“Dean,” Cas said, sounding amused if not a little admonishing. “We already know we can do this…quite well… _oh_ …” Cas’ earlobe was between Dean’s teeth and he licked over the nip before setting his sights on Castiel’s chin, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses. Dean made long work of it, hands gripping the curve of Cas’ ass. But once his lips finally reached Cas’, he put an inch of space between them, hovering coyly as the alpha tried to surge forward for another kiss.

“You’re right, Cas.” Dean’s eyes flashed down to Cas’ desperate lips, then back up to his hooded eyelids, laying it on thick now. “We should probably talk.”

Castiel huffed, eyeing him enigmatically. “So I was right,” he said lightly, “you _are_ insufferable.”

Dean laughed then, fully and without reservation. Yeah, this was gonna work out just fine.

“In conclusion, when it comes to the infamous ‘true mates’ story between alphas and omegas, well…” Charlie’s voice was still drifting in from the speakers but Dean could barely process what she was saying…the rake of Cas’ thumb against his collarbone was all it took for every distraction to evaporate. He felt pliant again, ready for whatever his alpha had in mind. He surged with expectancy, excitement, lust.

Love.

“Much of it is up to free will,” Charlie said in closing. “Just as it should be.”

The applause was thunderous…which was Dean’s last coherent thought before he pulled Castiel in closer, fingering his tie with a strong and unyielding grip, and kissed him.

  



	6. Epilogue

Castiel cracked open the door to his apartment, reaching for the nearby lamp. The yellow glow colored every inch of his tiny studio—and by tiny, he meant _tiny_ , the kind of place where you could take two steps forward to be in the living room, and two steps back and collide with the discount mattress crowding his bedroom. He never invited people over here—it was the right amount of space for one, but a squeeze for two and impossible when hosting a whole crowd. Yet here he was, dropping his suit jacket off at the coat rack, closing the front door, and watching Dean enter his place for the first time.

“S’nice,” Dean commented, and Castiel couldn’t tell if the omega was being polite or if he _actually_ thought so. He still didn’t know enough about Dean’s inflections, his various tones and cadences, to say one way or another. Not knowing this bothered Castiel—in some ways he felt like he had known Dean for years. But in other, very real and unnerving ways, it felt like they were on a first date.

“I’m barely ever here,” Cas replied flippantly, waving off the compliment, “it’s more of a place where I sleep and store books.”

Dean was hanging up his own navy blazer when Castiel mentioned the books. His eyes went wide, searching, as if he hadn’t noticed yet just _how many_ there were. He had three tall bookshelves and two smaller ones, none of the furniture matching of course—Goodwill, yardsale, and curbside finds—and even then. Even then there were more books stacked on the floor, on every end table, even on the kitchen counter.

“Huh,” Dean said, smirking. “Got plans to open your own library, Cas?”

Castiel flushed—not used to the teasing, to the deep bass of Dean’s voice calling him _Cas_ so casually, as if they had done this a thousand times before. Had a conversation, a date, stood together in his apartment…

“Pretty sure Sammy would have a field day in here,” Dean continued, the pads of his fingers skating across a row of hardback nonfiction titles. Castiel had his bookshelves organized by genre, then author, and arranged by size and color, of course. He was no monster.

“Sam is perhaps the brightest student in my class,” he said conversationally. “Do you think I could convince him to major in literature?”

Dean shrugged. “Dunno. After he graduates he’s already thinking law school—says he’ll probably do economics or political science to start.” Dean slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks, shoulders turned in.

There was a pause, a beat of awkward silence that neither of them knew how to fill. This was their first real conversation and he felt…nervous. Castiel could easily talk all night about how innately intelligent Sam was, or any other aspect of his daily life as a professor and PhD student, but there was already a clear wave of hesitation coming from Dean about the current subject. He cleared his throat and racked his brain, searching for something else to say.

“Can I get you some coffee?” he asked faintly. He had no idea how to host someone, let alone his biological soulmate he had kissed several times and even had a frenzied rut orgasm with once, but never an actual date or conversation. They had certainly done all this backwards.

“Never say no to a good cup’a coffee.” Dean gave him a lopsided grin, and some of the anxiety clawing its way around Castiel’s insides began to lose its potency. He could do this. They could do this.

“No promises on how good it’ll be,” he warned, busying himself in the compact kitchen. Gabriel had splurged last Christmas and gifted him a Keurig, justifying it because Cas was never home enough to drink a whole pot. It was a nice gesture, but an expensive habit he didn’t think he could afford to maintain. Besides, he usually preferred the fresh coffee he scavenged from the English department kitchen or the free refills he received at the bakery. Cas began fiddling with the latch of the coffee machine—the obstinate front flap refused to close—when he heard Dean speak again.

“I’ll be honest, Cas—” Dean was still staring at Castiel’s rows and rows of books, looking apprehensive. “I was shit at school, so all this…academic stuff. I’m, uh—” He scratched the back of his neck and laughed self-deprecatingly. “Intimidated. I’m a fish outta water here, man.”

Castiel was simultaneously panicked at the thought of making Dean worry, filled with compassion for this man who was baring himself so openly, and defensive that the omega couldn’t see how naturally intelligent he was.

“Dean,” he said, hoping to convey this array of emotions in one word alone, “I would never want to make you uncomfortable. The university is a big part of my life, but it’s not the only part. Not the _important_ part.” He temporarily gave up on the Keurig and raised his head, looking at Dean directly. He had his hands in his pockets still and seemed to be processing Castiel’s words, his expression softening once the alpha met his eyes. “But for the record, I think you are incredibly smart.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but evidently thought better of it. He examined Castiel closely, not only his face and clothes but his whole apartment, trying to make sense of the man he had essentially been silently dating for four months. Castiel allowed this without question, figuring they were used to it by now…staring at each other wordlessly, intently, like standing in front of a work of art and trying to decipher its meaning.

Eventually, Dean’s scrutiny dropped to the half-open and abandoned coffee maker on the kitchen counter. He looked back up at Cas affectionately and walked towards the kitchen.

“Let me,” he said softly, elbow grazing Castiel’s as he made space for himself at the counter. He fiddled with the mechanism the same way Cas had done, then peered closer for a moment before pulling down a smaller latch in the back and successfully closing the top. He slid the mug under the spout and pressed the “brew” button, turning back to look at Cas, who had decided then and there that Dean Winchester was an absolute marvel.

“Now _I’m_ the one who’s intimidated,” he mumbled good-naturedly, and Dean snorted.

“So you’ll keep me around for my handiness. Good to know,” Dean mused jokingly. Rather than respond appropriately, with a laugh or a grin, Castiel tilted his head, thinking. Dean seemed to do this often—refuse compliments, make light of his intelligence and talents. It was the sort of thing Castiel hadn’t been able to pick up on during their previous time together.

“I’ll keep you around because you’re wonderful,” he said simply, thinking of all the other adjectives that felt were synonymous with _Dean Winchester._ “You’re also generous, clever, thoughtful, diligent, unpredictable, creative, kind—”

“Jesus, Cas—”

“Not to mention—” As the coffee stream came to a loud, dripping stop, Castiel slid his hand around and cupped Dean’s cheek and squeezed. Firmly. “You have the best ass in the whole damn county.”

Dean chuckled loudly and flushed bright red, leaning in closer to Castiel and looking at him through long lashes. Their shared smile slowly faded into something more significant, more heated, Dean’s eyes flicking to Castiel’s lips and back up again….

And then he was wrapping his arms around Cas’ back and yanking him forward, their lips meeting. They hadn’t kissed since leaving campus—having driven in their separate cars straight to Castiel’s apartment—and it had barely been thirty minutes, tops, but Castiel had already missed this. Missed the feel of Dean’s body against him, under him. The kiss was intentionally passionate, as many of Dean’s kisses often were, his tongue already seeking entrance between Cas’ parted lips. Castiel crowded against him, pushing against the counter, hands sliding up from Dean’s tight ass to his arching back. Dean moaned as the bouquet of their shared scents—a piquant, sharp, mouthwatering sweetness—filled the room and made them dizzy.

Summoning all the willpower he had, Castiel pushed a hand against Dean’s chest. They were both panting, and Dean dived in for another kiss, but Castiel shook his head. “Your coffee’s getting cold,” he pointed out, and Dean huffed a sarcastic sigh.

“Huh,” he muttered, as Castiel took a step backwards to give him space to retrieve his coffee. “Looks like I fell for the only alpha in the history of the world who has no interest in...” He made a suggestive wave of the hand between him and Cas, and the alpha couldn’t contain his surprise. _That_ was why Dean assumed he had pulled away?

“Dean, I assure you…” He struggled to keep his voice even, because any affirmative he spoke would ultimately an understatement. He was dying to be intimate with Dean. “I am very much interested in that. With you.”

“Didn’t look that way when you locked me out of the bathroom,” Dean reasoned, taking his first sip of coffee. “Uh, you’re right—not great coffee.”

“That’s not fair,” Castiel replied, not letting Dean’s first comment go unaddressed. “I was in my rut. I could’ve hurt you—”

“You wouldn’t’ve—”

“I couldn’t take that chance. Not with you, Dean. Not with how you make me feel even when I’m not in a rut. I’m…” He took a deep breath, trying to put it into words. “Different around you, unpredictable and out of my mind—”

“Which is exactly how I felt when you shut me out that day.” Dean had put his mug on the counter with a loud clink. “Out of my freaking mind. You passed out in my arms, Cas, and then wouldn’t even let me take care of you—”

“I was trying to protect you—”

“And I was trying to protect _you_ —”

Castiel threw up his hands, exasperated. “Are we seriously arguing about who has more of a right to protect the other?”

Dean opened his mouth wide, another grievance on the edge of his tongue, but then Castiel’s comment seemed to sink in...momentarily stunning him. He put his hands on his hips, glancing down at his dress shoes. When he glanced back up, he was laughing.

“We’re idiots. Half hour into this whole ‘talking’ thing and we’re already fighting.” He was borderline belly-laughing now and Castiel crossed his arms, not amused. “Hey, wanna celebrate our first fight with a really awesome kitchen make-out sesh?”

Castiel couldn’t help it—he rolled his eyes and chuckled, a slow grin growing on his face. His self-righteous anger began to fade as quickly as it had appeared. “You are an odd and frustrating man.” He couldn’t keep the fondness and incredulity out of his voice. “No, I don’t want to make out with you, not right now. I want to _talk_ to you. Something I’ve been dying to do for months now.”

“Oh,” Dean mumbled, as if this had just occurred to him. He was leaned casually over the kitchen counter, and shrugged. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Before Castiel could give his immediate retort— _what do you think I’ve been trying to do this whole time?_ —the omega turned abruptly and started heading towards the opposite corner of the apartment, tugging the top drawer of Castiel’s dresser open.

“Hey, I’m borrowing some sweatpants and a shirt, ‘cause fuck these matching suits. We look like gay wonder twins.” Dean rummaged through without luck before Castiel came behind him, shooing him a step behind so he could slid open his third drawer. He found his best pair of sweats and a worn Rolling Stones t-shirt, which Dean seemed to approve of, and handed them both to his guest. Surprisingly, Dean took his change of clothes into the bathroom and let Castiel change into jeans and sweatshirt by himself, in the bedroom. He supposed Dean was taking this seriously, their time to talk. He couldn’t help but beam at the thought. He honestly couldn’t wait to learn everything there was to know about this man.

Castiel started out using his favorite conversation technique, the one he had learned from Terry Gross on NPR.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said lightly, once they were sitting in the living room—Dean in the loveseat, Castiel in the arm chair. Dean looked significantly more comfortable now that he wasn’t wearing a suit, and he snorted, rubbing a hand against his nose. He instantly made fun of Castiel’s question—because of course he did—which prompted Cas to admit he was borrowing an interview approach from the radio host of _Fresh Air._

“Terry Gross says you should never ask anyone specific questions if you’re trying to get to know them,” Castiel explained, which Dean seemed to find mildly interesting, so he continued. “Sure, you can ask about work or family or hobbies, but if you simply say ‘tell me about yourself’ then that person will decide which aspects of their life are most important to them. And you can actually get to know them better.”

Dean seemed to find that fascinating and before he knew it, Castiel was downloading a dozen or so of his favorite podcasts onto Dean’s phone. Dean said he would start listening to Cas’ recommendations while he did the on-campus landscaping—with the firm promise to never, ever tell Benny. “He’d never let me live it down if he caught me listening to NPR,” Dean grumbled. That prompted Castiel to ask Dean about his coworkers and his job, which Dean apparently enjoyed just fine but didn’t consider it a long-term career.

“What would you _like_ to do?” Castiel asked, genuinely curious.

“I’ve...never really thought about it,” Dean admitted, chuckling in a soft and humorless way. “The goal has always been to take care of Sammy, ya know? But then—the big ol’ brainiac got himself a full ride to Stanford. I wanted to let him go by himself, have the whole ‘dorm life’ experience or whatever. But he asked me to move to California with him, and I didn’t have anything in Lawrence worth sticking around for.”

“No other family?” Castiel asked. The Keurig coffee abandoned, at some point during the last half-hour Castiel had fixed the kettle and made them both chai tea with milk and honey. Dean had insisted he wasn’t a “frou-frou drink” kind of guy, yet his cup of tea was almost gone…

“None,” Dean answered, taking another gulp of his tea. Castiel waited patiently for him to continue, so Dean sighed, and spoke again. “My mother was killed in a house fire and my dad...well, let’s just say we’re estranged. Haven’t seen him in years.”

“That’s awful, Dean,” Castiel said, and he meant it. He knew what it was like to be separated from family, to protect yourself from those whose presence was harmful to you. It was a necessary evil in both of their cases, it seemed, but that didn’t make their situations easy. Dean asked Castiel about his own family situation, repeating back what he had garnered from the alpha’s silent show-and-tell experiment during the case study. Dean knew the gist of it already, but Castiel filled in some of the blanks—how him and his brother had moved out here together, how they’d lived together the first year until Gabe grew serious about his girlfriend and Castiel got his own place, how Gabe had coerced him within an inch of his life to join the fraternity.   

“A frat boy, hmm?” Dean smirked and raised his eyebrows. “Never woulda pegged you for a beer keg kinda guy.”

“That’s because I’m not,” Castiel said dryly. “It’s a honors, graduate student only, co-ed fraternity. There are very few kegs involved.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Dean replied just as sarcastically. “Y’all go partyin’ every Thursday in the library? BYOB stands for ‘bring your own bookmark’?”

Castiel laughed, his face covered in a wry grin. “You’ll just have to come with me on Thursday and see. Though I should mention, entrance into the party requires shotgunning a beer of Gabe’s choice.”

Dean’s eyebrows raised, seeming pleasantly surprised. “What kinda beer we talking here?”

“If he likes you? Whatever we have extra of—usually Coors Light. If he doesn’t, well…” He gave Dean a mischievous leer. “Natty Light.”

“Jesus,” Dean grimaced, polishing off the last of his tea. “Good thing Gabe likes me.”

Castiel shrugged sheepishly, as if he really didn’t know. In reply, Dean tossed a throw pillow at his head that bounced against his forehead and fell to the floor.

“That was…” Castiel paused for dramatic effect. “A mistake.”

He launched the pillow back at Dean, catching his chin. Dean retaliated with an even larger decorative pillow, this one covered in tiny brown buttons that felt somewhat annoying when throttled against Castiel’s head. And then—

It was all out war.

They were lying in the center of Castiel’s apartment ten minutes later, surrounded by the pillows from the couch and the chair and the bed, every available weapon they had successfully launched at one another. They were both panting and grinning, out of breath, and when Dean threaded their fingers together and squeezed, Castiel tried to remember a time when he was this happy.

***

They stayed up for nearly two days straight, just talking. It reminded Castiel of a prepubescent crush, their shared desire to stay up all night long, to need no other entertainment but the company of one another. Around eight a.m. on Sunday morning their rumbling stomachs took them to a twenty-four-hour diner, where Dean explained his obsession with all-things breakfast food and Castiel added it to an ever-growing list of quirky, cute things he loved about his omega. They took a walk afterwards in Castiel’s favorite park, Meyer Basin, so he could show Dean the view of the bell towers, the verdantly green lawn, the trails were he went running. They sat across from each other at a picnic table and swapped stories about their brothers—like the time Sam had been stuck in an elevator with a clown and nearly soiled himself, or when Gabe had faked his own death to avoid a group of thugs who were after him. Dean and Castiel were rolling with laughter by the end of it, laughing so loudly that all the nearby students who were studying shot them exasperated glares. Taking the hint, the pair walked hand-in-hand back to the Impala.

“Should we head back to my house?” Castiel asked hopefully. It had been nearly twenty-four hours already, but he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Dean just yet. Dean looked hesitant though, and Castiel tried to steel himself, to accept that they would eventually have to spend some time apart.

“I really oughta do laundry and check in on Sammy…” He gave Castiel a shy glance. “You could come over, if you want.”

Castiel thought about the offer. He should really do his own laundry, clean his own apartment, use up his groceries before they spoiled. But…

“I’d love that,” he said, and Dean beamed and turned up the radio. Castiel felt a little apprehensive about developing a personal relationship with Sam, but now that summer courses were over and fall semester was in full swing, the college sophomore was no longer considered Castiel’s student. If he intended to stay in Dean’s life—which was really no question at this point—Castiel knew that their relationship would require spending a good amount of time with each other’s brothers. Thankfully he liked Sam, truly and genuinely, and looked forward to getting to know him better outside of the classroom.

When they entered Dean’s spacious apartment, Sam was sitting in his boxers on the couch, playing Minecraft on his computer.

“Uh, hey guys,” he mumbled, seeming somewhat embarrassed by his current state once he noticed Castiel was in tow. Before the professor could apologize for coming over unannounced, Dean tossed his keys onto the nearby hook.

“Yeah, uh. Cas is my boyfriend now so he’s gonna come over whenever,” he told Sam dismissively, walking towards the kitchen counter and flipping through his stack of mail. This was news to Castiel, and he couldn’t help feeling a rush of joy at the term. _Boyfriend._ “Maybe put some pants on, or don’t, whatever. I don’t really care.”

Sam rolled his eyes, shut his computer mid-game, and collected the stray garbage from his earlier snack—a bag of veggie straws and a can of fresca—before heading towards his bedroom and shutting the door.

Castiel looked at Dean, who was flipping open his cable bill, and frowned at him.

“I’m not sure you handled that properly,” he said, whenever he heard the latch of Sam’s bedroom door close.

“Oh yeah?” Dean’s eyebrows arched, voice dripping with skepticism. “So I should ask my baby brother’s permission before having company at _my_ place?”

“It’s both of yours, isn’t it? Even if he isn’t paying rent, Dean...he’s only nineteen, barely an adult, and the only parent he’s ever really known is changing things. Bringing someone new into his life. Both of your lives.” He sighed, looking at the tension building around Dean’s neck, and rubbed the muscles faintly with his thumb. Dean was taut and rigid, but relaxed slowly under Castiel’s touch. From behind, he wrapped a hand around the span of his omega’s shoulders, nestling his head into the crook of the other man’s neck. “I just don’t want to disturb your life. I don’t want to make things hard for you.”

Dean chuckled, holding Cas’ forearm and swaying their hips together lightly. “That’s nice and all, Cas, but things _have_ changed. We’ve had one real day together, but already I can’t imagine things going back to the way they were.” There was a beat, a pause of hesitation, and Dean spun around in Castiel’s grip, facing him till they were nose to nose. “Can you?”

Castiel smiled, cupping Dean’s chin and caressing his cheek with his thumb. “No, Dean. I never want to go back to a time when I can’t talk to you, touch you—” He nuzzled closer, their lips sweeping together gently. “Kiss you.”

“Good,” Dean said, breathless. “‘Cause I have no intention of letting you go.”

After trading a few lazy kisses, Dean broke away to go knock on Sam’s door, closing it behind him. Castiel wandered around the apartment, taking in the domesticity, the feeling of warmth and family that covered every inch of the space. In a flash that made his heart race, he imagined him and Dean having a home of their own one day, a place they owned together that Dean could pour every part of himself into. Despite the omega’s occasionally gruff exterior, Castiel knew now it was largely a facade. He saw the potted plant that had been carefully watered, the pantry overflowing with groceries, the framed photo of their mother on the mantle. He knew what these small touches meant, knew the love and reverence that went into them.

And he loved Dean a little bit more, noticing these things.

The brothers exited the bedroom a few minutes later, Sam now wearing jeans and hoodie. He seemed much more himself, smiling and telling Castiel hello, and Dean clapped his brother on the shoulder and headed to the kitchen, calling, “Spaghetti okay, Cas?”

“Spaghetti sounds wonderful,” Castiel replied earnestly. Dean refused to let him help, stubborn man that he was, so Sam and Castiel sat in the living room discussing Sam’s current class schedule in such painstaking detail that Dean eventually hollered out, “Hey, Nerd Patrol, soup’s on.”

They ate together at the dining room table, which was an unfamiliar experience to Castiel at this point—his apartment was so small he couldn’t even fit a bistro table. The pasta was delicious, the bread drenched in butter, and the marinara sauce was simmering hot with a hint of red pepper…reminding Castiel of Dean’s scent. The omega had a remarkable aroma that he was getting used to being imbued with, familiar as the hand on his knee and the sight of Dean laughing as he swirled his spaghetti. There were traces of sauce smearing the corners of his mouth and shadows under his eyes from their shared lack of sleep, but sitting beside him now, Castiel thought no person had ever looked so beautiful.

***

It was surprising, really, how quickly they had established a new routine, how easily they had slipped into the fabric of each other’s everyday life. They had lunch together two to three times a week on-campus, whenever Castiel could pull himself away from his mountain of grading. Fridays and Saturdays were date night and Dean usually spent the night at Cas’ place, and on Wednesdays Castiel was invited to family dinner.

It was an unremarkable Wednesday night, three weeks later, when it happened. Sam was taking Jessica to a concert that night, so they were free to spend some time at Cas’ place instead of their usual “family” time. Dean came over after work to fix his boyfriend’s dishwasher, which was old and on its last leg. Castiel didn’t care about repairing the appliance, but Dean had insisted in that thoughtfully persistent way that brokered no argument. Castiel was thinking about ordering them pizza whenever he rounded the corner—having been instructed to go grab a pair of pliers from the trunk of the Impala—and Dean was bent over, ass up and presenting, tight and round and simply _there._ The bottom of his undershirt was riding up and Castiel stood frozen in his tracks, appreciating the sliver of bare skin he spotted. Dean’s work trousers were already rumpled and dusted from working all day and Castiel had the sudden urge to make him dirtier, filthy, to strip Dean of all his clothes and mark every inch of his uncovered body.

“Cas, what’re you—”

The alpha didn’t draw Dean from inside the dishwasher as much as yank him, grasping his middle then tugging his hand, pulling him to his feet. Dean was sweating, staggering, completely dumbfounded when Castiel kissed him—full and wet and forcefully. They had shared many memorable kisses over the past few weeks, even traded blowjobs whenever Dean spent the night. But this sense of urgency, of need, was new and sharp and almost dire.

Dean pulled away from the kiss, still seeming confused. “Cas, the dishwasher—”

“Leave it,” he growled and dived back in, holding Dean’s chin to him with cupped hands and licking the entrance of his lips. Dean was inundated in his usual spicy musk, but there was also something earthy and warm in his scent, soil and sunshine from where he had spent all day outside. Castiel imagined how they must look together—the pale and awkward professor, the tan and charming handyman. He knew the phrase “married up” didn’t quite apply to them (not yet, anyways) but he felt as though he had already, in every regard, been given a mate that was far too good for him.

A mate he wanted to make his—officially.

“Dean…” He pulled away, glancing down at his feet and feeling suddenly uncertain. They hadn’t talked about it since that day, over a month ago outside the Roadhouse, the first time they had kissed. For weeks now the word _mate_ had been like an unspoken inch under Castiel’s skin, a song he couldn’t quite get out of his head. He had never wanted to rush Dean, to push him into making a commitment he wasn’t ready for. But they had known each other for five months, and spent every waking moment they could together, and Charlie had practically proclaimed them soulmates in front of two hundred people, and—

“Hey,” Dean whispered, pulling their hips in closer, his tone amused, “what’s going on in that head’a yours?”

Castiel licked his lips unconsciously and Dean tracked the movement with interest. “Dean, I want…”

Dean’s thumb traced Cas’ bottom lip, seeming transfixed by the wet plumpness of it. “What do you want?”

Castiel struggled to find the words, knowing nothing was quite meaningful enough for what he wanted from Dean. For what he was asking for. So he tilted his head and kissed the curved spot on Dean’s neck, the soft and subtle patch of skin, the place where a mating bite would go. He kissed and sucked until he wondered if the skin might turn purple and then Dean seemed to understand. He pulled back with such ferocity that Castiel was startled by it, eyes wide with emotion.

“Yes,” he said without a trace of doubt, and then more breathlessly, voice trembling, “Yes, alpha.”

And then they were kissing again, quick and sloppy and feverish, Castiel pulling them both backwards several steps until they reached his bed. They flopped on the mattress still pressed against each other, the omega grinding the outline of his erection against Cas’ upper thigh. A rumble of excitement escaped his lips and Castiel reached his leg around and flipped their positions, staring into the dazed and hooded eyes of the man beneath him and wondering how he had gotten _this_ lucky. Despite the heat between them, he took a moment to gently caress the pad of his thumb against Dean’s cheekbones, petting his freckles and beaming down at him.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered reverently, not even intending to say it out loud—but that was the power this man had over him. The influence of his presence, his being, his scent, was all at once tremendously overwhelming and enormously freeing. Each and every day, Castiel’s words were careful and measured, thoughtful and guarded. But with Dean…

With Dean he could just _be_.

Dean pitched himself up on his elbows, arms enveloping Cas on either side, and held them both steady as he reached up for another kiss. They stayed like that for several minutes, Castiel straddling his lap while their hips sunk into a continuous rhythm, kissing and panting and tightening their grip, the tented front of their pants rubbing together in maddening friction. Eventually Castiel had the sudden urge to coyly lick Dean’s nipple, but realized with some irritation that they were still wearing clothes. His fingers began to fumble with the front buttons of Dean’s work uniform but the process was too slow, waiting was practically painful, and he growled, unbuttoning the first few and then tugging with all his pent-up, alpha vigor. Dean yelped in astonishment as the remaining buttons were ripped from the fabric, scattering across the floor. He threw the offensive shirt in a wad at their feet, then spread Dean’s bare chest beneath his fingers, laying the omega down beneath him with some force.

“Dude, that shirt was like thirty dollars—”

Dean’s words were halted as he moaned at the first lick to his hard, pink nipple. Castiel swirled his tongue around in slow and seductive circles, mesmerized by the sounds Dean was making beneath him. When he peered up the omega had his eyes closed, his hands fisting the bedsheets with urgency. He moved his attention to the other nipple, drawing an even more passionate reaction from the omega beneath him. With a final, flat-tongued lick, he pulled away and smirked.

“I’ll sew them back on for you,” he said, because even in his heavily aroused alpha state, he did feel bad for ruining one of Dean’s work shirts. Dean cracked an eye open and grinned up at him.

“So you can rip my shirt during sex, then patch it up afterwards?” he said cheekily. “Got me an alpha who can do both.”

“I can do much more than that.” Castiel’s voice was all suggestive rumbles and growls as he unbuttoned Dean’s pants, though he pointedly didn’t strip them off completely. His omega was still speaking in complete sentences...and that just wouldn’t do. He palmed Dean’s erection through his dusty work pants and Dean sighed at the contact, eyes slipping closed again as he squirmed against the mattress. After a few minutes his hand wandered to the band of Dean’s boxers, as if he were intending to slip his hand beneath and touch Dean’s erection, but he altered his course at the last moment and tenderly pinched Dean’s nipple instead. He yowled—more in surprise than pain—and Castiel lowered his mouth, soothing any sting away with open-mouthed kisses. He worked his way back up to Dean’s neck and stayed there for a while, sucking fervent marks in a path leading up to where the mating bite would go. At the same time he was straddling Dean’s left thigh, grinding his erection against the sculpted muscle beneath him, his other hand teasingly brushing Dean’s erection every few minutes.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean whispered, sounding significantly more ruffled now than he had fifteen minutes ago. “You wantin’ everybody in town to play connect-the-dot, hickey edition?”

“Not unless they have a death wish,” Castiel said instantly, and Dean chuckled a little before his eyes settled on Cas’ face. His gaze turned suggestive, those stunning eyes of his opaque with excitement and arousal, and Castiel nearly gasped at the intensity of his attention.

“Love you like this, Cas,” he whispered, hand tucking into the bottom of Castiel’s button-up shirt, seeking his bare skin. “All alpha’d out and badass. It’s sexy as fuck.”

Castiel hummed at the compliment as Dean removed the alpha’s shirt with shaking hands. Castiel let his shirt fall from his shoulders, tugging on the cuffed sleeves until he was finally bare from the waist up. Deciding he had teased his boyfriend enough for now, he stood up and slipped his trousers off, standing in only his boxers as Dean’s eyes raked him over. He helped Dean wriggle out of his own, the omega lifting his hips as Castiel pulled on the cuffs and slipped the pants off. Then he leapt back on the bed with Dean’s arms outstretched towards him, touching his neck and shoulders and pulling him down closer. Castiel had other plans, though, giving his lips a frenzied sort of lick before pulling Dean’s boxers down on his thighs, scooting on his heels further down the mattress, and taking the omega’s hard and aching cock into his mouth.

Dean moaned outrageously as Castiel went deeper, making his mouth tight and suctioning. One hand steadied him while the other lightly fondled the omega’s balls, and he breathed through his nose, taking him down farther and farther. He swore he could see the muscles in Dean’s abdomen tighten, his breathing loud and labored. When Castiel’s lack of oxygen finally presented itself as a problem, he popped off with a robust suck, swiping his tongue around the head.

“Cas,” Dean moaned, fingers threading into Castiel’s hair and pulling. “Your fucking mouth…”

He took the spit-slick and shiny cock into the heat of his mouth again, using his hand to stroke rhythmically, tightfisting the shaft in reckless abandon. When Dean spoke again there was a warning in his voice, an unstable whine on the edge of his lips. “Wanna come on your cock, Cas, wanna come on your knot...oh, fuck, Cas. Cas I’m gonna—”

Castiel continued pumping Dean’s dick through his orgasm, the warm and salty taste of the omega’s come heavy on his tongue. There were even hints of sharp and stinging pepper, traces of Dean’s scent lacing the flavor of it. In a strange and possessive way Castiel was hesitant to swallow it all, to let the taste and the feeling go, so when Dean finally recovered from the aftereffects and pulled Castiel horizontal for a kiss, some of Dean’s come dribbled into the omega’s mouth. They both moaned at the sensation, the raw lewdness of the act, trading Dean’s come back and forth between their open lips. Castiel finally swallowed the last of it with a satisfied moan, licking the perimeter of Dean’s plump, wet lips for a final taste.

“Jesus,” Dean panted, “you’re a kinky little fucker.” Judging by the hand snaking its way into the front of Castiel’s boxers, he didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, really, considering he shivered once his fist wrapped around Castiel’s thick and swollen cock. “Still want you to fuck me, Cas.”

“Of course,” he breathed, distracted by Dean’s hand expertly rubbing him. Even stroked dry, Castiel felt dangerously close to the edge already, so he squirmed away from Dean’s ministrations. His veins felt nearly aflame with stimulation and anticipation, already imagining the sinful and unyielding heat of Dean’s hole. But even more arousing was the omega’s fragrant slick making his mouth water, and Castiel manuveured Dean to all-fours and massaged the globes of his ass. This exact stance was what had sparked the whole night’s events—seeing Dean’s nearly indecent position while working on the dishwasher—and slick sliding from the omega’s constricted, untouched hole made Castiel feel wild with want and lust.

“Fuck, Dean,” he mumbled, realizing he rarely cursed, but words were stumbling from his lips now without any self-awareness. With both his hands on either cheek, he kneaded and pulled until Dean’s wet and leaking hole was exposed and ready. “You’re perfect. You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Without any further build-up he licked a flat tongue up and down the surface of boyfriend’s damp hole...and Dean hissed at the sudden contact. Enjoying the reaction that had elicited, Castiel did it again and again, greedy when it came to giving Dean pleasure. He swallowed down the delicious slick realizing he might never receive his fill, might never get enough of this. Of all things _Dean._ He felt the omega’s body trembling when the tip of his tongue approached his entrance, and it was tight, unbelievably tight and velvety and hot on his tongue. Dean began pushing back against his tongue, begging, “More Cas, gimme more,” so Castiel obliged, somehow keeping his face buried in Dean’s ass while wetting his pointer finger. He fingered the omega open, circling the tight space before inserting the first knuckle, still licking the border that dripped with slick and spit. Dean moaned unabashedly and thrashed above him, vocal in need just like the alpha had always imagined he would be. The second finger tested Cas’ patience immensely, watching the stretch of Dean’s glistening and needy hole be filled and stretched. With a sight like that he knew he wouldn’t last long, but Dean was quivering and wobbly with desire within minutes, dick erect again and fucking himself against Cas’ fingers.  

“Cas,” he whined, over and over, and Castiel’s resolve to prep him even more began to crumble, “need your cock. Need your knot, alpha, please. Please Cas, please…”

Castiel was virtually spellbound by the pleas Dean was producing, feeling dizzy and heady and out of control. He wanted to give his mate pleasure, and the thought reminded him of how tonight would end—with his bite on Dean’s neck and his knot buried in his tautly stretched hole. From that thought alone he moaned right along with Dean, feeling the intensity of their collision begin to build. Dean was dripping with so much slick at this point that Castiel stroked his cock with it, sucking a finger into his mouth and savoring the taste, before lining himself up to Dean’s hole and slipping in the tip. Dean keened, practically sobbing, and Castiel didn’t feel a shred more stable—he wanted to move, he _needed_ to move, but he inched in deeper and deeper until he bottomed out, then watched and listened for Dean’s reaction. The omega was breathing fast, arms shaking, until he finally whimpered, “Move Cas, please, fuck…”

And then Castiel gripped his hips and pounded in and out, in and out, careful to never pull out completely because Dean was just _that_ tight—the alpha worried he might not fit again. Seeing Dean split wide open on his flushed and glistening cock made Castiel growl and increase his thrusts, setting an unbelievable pace that he knew would be impossible to maintain.

“Jesus fucking Christ, gonna come again,” Dean moaned. “Wanna see you when I come…”

Dean had a point—no way was Castiel going to miss the expression on his omega’s face when he came for the first time on his cock—so he pulled out momentarily and helped Dean flip onto his back. When their eyes met something changed in Castiel—the delicate flecks of gold and green, the eager and open expression on his omega’s face, his hand tracing the shell of Castiel’s ear. When he entered Dean for the second time, the sex became less about lust and about something more important, more significant.

More like love.

They kissed with each thrust, panting and moaning in each other’s mouths, and when he felt like he couldn’t hold on any longer, Castiel skated his lips across Dean’s neck. He reached his hand down, searching and fixated, fisting Dean’s erection with erratic strokes. He had barely touched the omega’s cock a handful of times before Dean was spilling over Castiel’s fingers, and the deep and throaty moan erupting from Dean’s lips made Castiel finally tumble over the edge, knot swelling and catching Dean’s rim as he pumped his omega full of come. Castiel thought his heart might pound out of his chest as every ounce of blood traveled to his cock and he panted, engrossed in the sensation, borderline howling from the immensity of his orgasm. He felt out of body for a few moments before Dean jostled him, whimpering and begging, “C’mon Cas, bite me...please alpha…”

His senses returned to him and Castiel opened his mouth, taking a deep breath and inhaling their mixed scents along with the musky presence of arousal. Then he bite down—forceful enough to draw blood, the taste tangy and carnal and immeasurably erotic. Dean nearly convulsed beneath him, body buzzing with energy, and he came again with his cock pressed between Castiel’s stomach. He groaned this third time, as if the orgasm had been ripped from his body, and his body was so tense and rigid around Castiel’s cock that the alpha came again without warning, pained and violent and swollen.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, slumping his head against the mattress and closing his eyes. “Holy fucking shit, Cas.”  

Castiel licked the open bite on Dean’s neck, soothing it with his mouth. He had always imagined this part of mating—the actual _biting_ part—would feel primitive and unnecessary. But there was a thrill deep down inside of him knowing no one had ever done this to Dean before, and no one ever would again.

“Mine,” he said breathlessly into the space of Dean’s neck. He kissed and nibbled on his collarbone, not feeling conscious enough to do much else. Dean shifted his weight until they were face to face, his finger caressing Castiel’s jaw with a light, feather touch.

“Yours,” he replied, vulnerability evident in his voice, and it was all the confirmation Castiel needed. Their relationship had begun so unconventionally that they didn’t feel the need to talk everything out, to put all their emotions into words. Their unspoken connection had established a profound and lasting bond, an acute understanding and love that other mated alpha and omegas merely dreamed of.

Humming the song hadn’t been intentional, but as they waited for Cas’ knot to go down (thirty minutes and counting) Dean had shuffled himself forward for a kiss, and pulled back looking amused.

“Dude,” he said, “you really serenading me with Alison Krauss right now?”

Castiel rolled his eyes in feigned irritation and they both chuckled. “I _wasn’t_ serenading you,” Castiel insisted with amusement in his voice, though the gesture wouldn’t be a bad idea for the future. “I was thinking about us, about how we met, and…”

“You are such a freaking softie,” Dean said endearingly, fingers kneading the tight muscles of Castiel’s lower back. “My alpha, sex god with a heart of gold.”

Castiel snorted but didn’t reject the description, figuring there were much worse things to be known for. He shifted his body sideways, so he was lying beside Dean instead of on top of him, but the subtle shift of his knot made them both wince.

“God damn,” Dean sighed, turning his body in towards Cas’ and entwining their fingers together. He squeezed, looking thoughtful and introspective. “Think it’ll always be like this?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Castiel reasoned, thinking he meant the now forty-five minutes they had spent entwined together, “my knot is just sensitive because it’s our first time, and we’ve just mated, and—”

“I don’t mean that,” Dean interrupted, though pleasantly enough. “I mean, y’know...you and me.”

“Oh,” Castiel mumbled, letting the words sink in. And then he was beaming. “Yes, Dean. Where you and I are concerned…” He brushed their lips together, sighing. “I think it will always be just like this.”

Still facing each other, arms wrapped around each other’s sides, Castiel watched Dean’s smile fade as he closed his eyes. Soon enough his breathing was labored and sweet, and Castiel looked at the bedside clock, noticing it was barely eight o’clock. His hand drifted to Dean’s hair and ruffled it gently, taking another deep breath and realizing their scent had properly mixed now—a sugary spice that made him suddenly insatiable. They were mated, he thought with a surreal amount of self-awareness. This gorgeous, defiant, sweetly-sleeping omega was his forever.

When Castiel burrowed his head closer to Dean’s pillow, his heart was extraordinarily full. In his mind a song was playing on repeat, and words that had never contained much meaning for him suddenly meant everything...with Dean in his arms. He kissed the tip of his nose and sighed, closing his eyes, and fell asleep humming:

_It's amazing how you can speak right to my heart_

_Without saying a word you can light up the dark_

_Try as I may I could never explain_

_What I hear when you don't say a thing_

 

_The smile on your face lets me know that you need me_

_There's a truth in your eyes sayin' you'll never leave me_

_The touch of your hand says you'll catch me if ever I fall_

_You say it best when you say nothing at all_

 

_All day long I can hear people talking out loud_

_But when you hold me near, you drown out the crowd_

_Old Mr. Webster could never define_

_What's being said between your heart and mine_

 

_The smile on your face lets me know that you need me_

_There's a truth in your eyes sayin' you'll never leave me_

_The touch of your hand says you'll catch me if ever I fall_

_You say it best when you say nothing at all_  

 

_The smile on your face lets me know that you need me_

_There's a truth in your eyes sayin' you'll never leave me_

_The touch of your hand says you'll catch me if ever I fall_

_You say it best when you say nothing at all_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! I LOVE ME SOME FEEDBACK, so please, drop me a line and let me know your reaction to this story. <3 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, I'm almost done with an A/B/O Destiel WIP! You can start reading it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17096402/chapters/40205585).
> 
> Can't wait to talk to you in the comments section!!


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